


Everything That Happens is From Now On

by trishjames



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Body Positivity, Catharsis, Consent, Crying, Digital Art, Draco's POV, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Friendship, Healing, Hope, Insecurity, Learning to trust, M/M, Masturbation, Positive Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape Trauma Syndrome (RTS), Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Romance, Secrets, Supportive partner, Trust, Trust Issues, body issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-08 15:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14108061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trishjames/pseuds/trishjames
Summary: After surviving a brutal assault, Draco tries to navigate the tumultuous waters of his mind, and embrace a bit of love and trust in his life. After all, the smallest steps forward can begin to heal the most fractured of souls.





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I have used archive warnings, I’d just like to reiterate my chosen tags for the story in this note. **Trigger Warnings:** _sexual assault, depictions of violence and sexual assault, emotional/physical depictions and discussions concerning the aftermath of rape and rape trauma._ In addition to these warnings, there are endnotes on chapters one, three, and five, as well. Please. Your mental health is important, so please do not read/stop reading if this may trigger you. This is very much Draco’s journey _towards_ recovery, no one journey is the same as another, and recovery is never a straight line. I tried to write this story with that in mind while navigating an extremely difficult topic. 
> 
> Thank you to the Mods for this truly important fest, for your patience, and kindness. Thank you to TDCat for both prompt (#68) and your meticulous, amazing beta skills. You are such a gem. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 
> 
> The title is a line from Bon Iver’s gorgeous song, _re: stacks_.
> 
> _I've been twisting to the sun I needed to replace_  
>  _And the fountain in the front yard is rusted out_  
>  _All my love was down_  
>  _In a frozen ground_  
>  _ **— re: stacks** _  
> 

“Draco, are we clear on the details?”

Draco flinches. He reluctantly draws his attention away from the charmed, nearly floor-to-ceiling window where a sunny, cloudless blue sky is pictured beyond the glass. The small room they’ve placed him in is nice. Too nice for a convicted ex-child Death Eater turned Potion Master. Though spartan, the room is equipped with a comfortable-looking yellow armchair sat beside the bed, a sage-green afghan folded over the back, and a matching ottoman placed before it. A large Areca palm tree positioned in the corner of the room strains its leafy branches towards the fake sunlight pouring in from the window. The florescent lights of the room are off to allow the natural bright light from the window to spill into the room, illuminating the white space in a gold-tinge that makes everything it touches look ethereal. It’s all so lovely enough he’s distracted from the nostril-burning smell of antiseptic charms, the beeps and whirls of his heart monitoring charm, and the dripping sound of the floating IV bag just above his left shoulder. Not for the first time this morning, Draco peers through slightly confused, bleary eyes at the woman across from him.

Siobhan is still dressed in her simple navy-blue robes from yesterday, but now her long black hair is pulled up into a tight bun. She’s an older woman with a soft look about her. _Pretty_ , he thinks through his haze. She’s probably someone’s mum, her nurturing nature something he can appreciate right now.

“Pardon. What did you say?” 

He flinches again. His voice sounds weird – completely unlike the deep, sharp tones of his natural voice. What comes out from his dry parted lips instead is faint and floaty, like a breeze coming off the calming tides of an oceanfront. _Calming Draught. Ferula Charm. Murtlap Essence. Blood Replenish._ He repeats this over and over again in his head, as if it’s a favourite song, in the hopes of clinging onto what he can recall from the last thirty minutes since waking. The Healers have pumped him with so many potions and charms within the last 24 hours. They want him to feel numb and dazed so he doesn’t quite recall the reason for being in hospital in the first place. He hates it. The potions do nothing to change the reality of his situation. The physical pain is gone. For now. That’s all.

“This is my card,” Siobhan says again. Her voice is warm and kind and the smile on her face is sincere, the apples of her cheeks rosy and naturally dimpled. He believes these are all the trappings of a patient person and is grateful to have such an individual at his side. She taps the card sitting on the small white rustic-looking nightstand beside his bed. “It contains my Floo address for emergencies, as well as my information for owl post. If you have a Muggle mobile, I can also be contacted that way.” She pauses to give him a sympathetic smile that reaches her blue eyes. “I’m here whenever you’d like a follow-up.”

_Oh. She’s leaving._

When the Healers had asked him if he wanted their Crisis Counsellor present, Draco had not hesitated in saying yes. He had met her last night amid the frenzy of Aurors and Healers trying to help him, trying to save his life. She’s remained a steady source of strength by his side for the last 10 hours as he’d been poked, swabbed, prodded and photographed. She had held his hand after he’d been examined and healed to the best of the medical staff’s ability, and she had talked him through some of the legal jargon the Aurors used that his muddled brain simply could not decipher, he had been so exhausted and drugged. Once the Aurors had left, Draco told her he wanted sleep and she had in turn encouraged him to rest, claiming she’d be there in the morning. When he had stirred from a dreamless sleep, she was sitting in the armchair, a book open in her hands.

Draco swallows down the lump rising in his throat and nods. “This,” he started, eyes burning. “This is my fault. I should have…” He trails off as his insides go cold with dismay even though he can feel the flush to his skin, red-hot and aching all at once. “I’m sorry,” he says with a note of finality, drawing his gaze downward to glare at his hands clasped in his lap. He clears his throat before turning his gaze back to the picturesque, cloudless window and says nothing more, but can tell when Siobhan steps a bit closer to his bed, her warmth radiating now only a foot away. Draco wonders how she can stomach looking at something like this – like _him_. He knows what he must look like, had heard the Healers shouting at one another in a hurried frenzy when he had Apparated into the centre of St Mungo’s A &E reception. It was a horrific list of injuries. A concussion, three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a skull fracture, a broken nose, two broken teeth, a lacerated tongue, a punctured neck, a shattered left cheekbone, internal bleeding, a 30-centimetre by 4-centimetre long slice of skin missing from his left hipbone and extending to his back from splinching, brutal mottled bruises everywhere, a bruised kidney, and finally, severe rectal bleeding, perforation, and sphincter damage.

“Listen to me, love. This is _not_ your fault. You? You did _nothing_ wrong. And you’ve certainly nothing to be sorry about— you’re a brave young man, Draco. A young man who survived a horrific ordeal. You’re a _survivor_ and you can’t forget that. Do you understand me?” Siobhan asks, her voice firm but gentle. He knows Siobhan will soon leave and he will be all alone, left trying to piece together the events of last night. Draco closes his eyes and gives a jerky nod. He hasn’t cried in years, and he won’t do it here. _Refuses_ to do it here. Instead, he fists the soft cotton white sheet pooling in his lap until the urge to do so passes. He hates feeling vulnerable.

He’s desperate for… _something_ … a confirmation he’ll be okay, he’s safe, he’ll _survive this too._ The need embarrasses him, and his cheeks burn. But he lifts his hand, his fist uncurling, and reaches for Siobhan’s soft, warm hand.

“Is there anyone you’d like me to call for you?” she asks after several minutes of comfortable silence, her blue eyes searching his face. Draco pulls his hand away from hers, his arms crossing against his thin chest. His mind’s eye immediately conjures up messy black hair and bottle-green eyes. 

“No.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to mention here that Draco’s brutal assault is a case of stranger rape, and in addition, briefly discuss my reasons behind depicting a stranger rape in this story. 
> 
> It is a horrendous act that occurs in about 10% of rape cases throughout the UK (Rape Crisis England & Wales, 2016-2017). It is important to state that 90% of those who are assaulted know their attackers prior to the assault. 5 out of 6 survivors choose not to report cases of their assault to the police (Crime Survey for England and Wales (CSEW), 2017). Simply put, I am aware that within the range of which sexual assault occurs, it is not common for assault to occur between strangers or for victims in the UK to report their assault. But stranger rapes happen, and rapes do get reported.
> 
> This story is about surviving and recovering from non/con as much as it’s about an individual learning how to interact with their partner after such a devastating experience. It is my intention to depict Draco’s experiences after surviving and reporting a stranger rape. I wanted to show some of the struggles that survivors go through when their lives are disrupted through the horrendous act of rape. The reality about rape and consent? It is a two-sided coin. Rape is an epidemic. For far too long people have stayed silent, and that is why we have seen movements in America and elsewhere today such as #MeToo and #TimesUp. This is why we have fests that highlight the importance of consent, why we celebrate consent and enthusiastic consent. I wanted to show a fictional depiction of assault and the aftermath of assault, so we see why these conversations are important, yes, but to also show the thoughts that run through an individual's mind that extends beyond cut and dry 'clinical responses' to rape. I also wanted to show that arriving to the healing process after rape is not always an easy straight line. We’ve seen through the media (or maybe through loved ones or our own personal struggles) that it can take days, months, years for people to come forward, having decided not to immediately disclose their rape to their loved ones or police.


	2. Chapter Two

He’s soon to be discharged.

Because the clothing Draco had worn during his assault was still in the possession of the Aurors, the Trainee Healer provided him with a standard black hospital-issued jumper, trainers, and joggers with the St Mungo’s emblem embossed on the front of the jumper. It’s scratchy and the material is too thin, but he’s grateful nonetheless. Once fully dressed, he gingerly sits on the edge of the bed, his movements slow from the potions and the dull tingle of remnant pain. He’ll be needing another dose soon, he realises. Before he can decide whether to sprawl out on the bed or not, the Trainee Healer bustles into the room, her lime green robes slightly wrinkled and her expression agitated. She shoves a medium-sized simple, wooden box with a small latch on the front containing thirty-six neatly labelled vials under Draco’s nose. He takes it gingerly.

“Mr Malfoy, we have here a regimen of potions to combat any diseases you may have been exposed to, both wizard and Muggle,” she says in a clipped clinical tone, gesturing towards the black vials. “You must take one potion each day at the same time for the next 28 days. This may cause fatigue, nausea, and or vomiting, but we can send you home with _Queasy-B-Gone_ if you do not have this at home. I must inform you that if you engage in any sexual activity within the potions’ time frame, you _must_ use protection charms for the sake of your partner’s health. We also have a vial of healing potion, which is this green vial here. Five drops over the next week on the tongue should be enough to ease what discomfort you may have left, as well as heal the remaining bruises on your body. Finally, we have seven vials of Dreamless Sleep draught, which is purple. You will not be prescribed any more without a proper evaluation from a Healer or Mind Healer, and all apothecaries will have your name listed on their Restricted Consumer registry, so do consume wisely and keep us posted on your progress. I also have here a list of group therapy meetings for male sexual assault victims in your postcode. Do you have any questions?” 

_Victim._

_Am I a victim?_ Draco wonders, taking the small proffered parchment from Trainee Healer Meadow and carefully tucking it into his pocket. Siobhan had called him a _survivor_. He doesn’t want to be called a _victim_. He doesn’t want to be called a _survivor_. He just wants to forget this happened. The attack had felt like it lasted for hours but Draco knows realistically it wasn’t more than ten minutes. Something sharp and shameful twists in the pit of his stomach. _Ten_ _fucking_ _minutes and now forever_. “No, and thank you,” he says hoarsely. He glances down at the box in his hands, a box containing for the next 28 days a reminder of last night. He hadn’t mentioned to her he was not only a Potions Master, but a contractor for the DMLE _and_ St Mungo’s. She had probably handed over a batch of his own creation. He remains silent at the gross irony as Trainee Healer Meadow nods.

“One more thing,” she says. “The Aurors are on-call if you’d like to take them to the scene of the crime now, for further investigation.”

“Excuse me?” he snaps, shocked eyes meeting her blank brown ones. Any illusion he was holding onto of tucking away the events of the last 24 hours vanish like leaves from a gust of wind.

“They are ready to go over the scene of the crime again with you present—”

“ _No,”_ he starts desperately, a wild panic surging through him as he opens his mouth, gasping. He shakes his head. “I-I provided them the c-c-coordinates last night. I d-d-don’t, I c-c- _can’t_ –” he stutters.

“—I understand, Mr Malfoy, it’s…okay,” she says awkwardly, patting him on his elbow before placing a sheaf of parchment on the bed. He doesn’t notice he’s trembling until he stares down in mortification at his shaking hands, the small vials clinking together in the box. He takes a deep breath and through sheer force, wills the trembling away. “I’ll inform them of your decision.” She then nods once more and exits the room, leaving him alone with the box of potions in hand and discharge parchments sitting beside him.

-

When Draco steps out of his fireplace, releasing a deep breath as he dusts off a bit of soot from his shoulders, he feels a bit better about trying to let go of last night’s horrors. The idea of tea comes to mind as he stiffly makes to move towards his kitchen. 

The faint scent of Chanel No. 5 hits his nostrils and he realises he’s not alone. 

Grandly sprawled across Draco’s ornate chaise lounge with a bowl of red grapes and a _Witch Weekly_ that most certainly does not belong to him is Pansy. Her asymmetrical bob is wavy tonight and she’s dressed rather relaxed in a pair of grey peg-legged trousers paired with a white button-down. Silk, he realises, stomach turning. He’d worn his favourite white silk shirt last night. “Draco, darling, is there any particular reason you’ve been missing for nearly 24 hours?” Her slow casual boredom rivals his own drawl, eyes glued to her magazine as a coffin-shaped, black lacquered nailed finger flips a page. “Your boyfriend is in a nasty strop about it for your information, but perhaps that was your goal all alo–” Pansy freezes, the sentence dying in her throat once she looks over at him, her shrewd eyes meeting his before travelling down the length of his body and snapping back up to his face. She places the bowl and magazine aside and is in front of him so fast he’s certain she Apparated. Her cold hand touches his bruised cheek and Draco winces away with a hiss, cheek still sore and smarting. Her eyes widen. “Merlin, Draco, what—”

The urge to flee from Pansy’s enquiring gaze is nearly unbearable, and for once in a long time Draco wishes he’d cancelled Pansy’s open access to his Floo. “I’m fine,” Draco sniffs, moving away from her and the fireplace to head towards his kitchen. After the last 24 hours, he feels safe here in his flat. It’s tastefully decorated, if a little draughty from his lack of presence these last few weeks, but it is nevertheless _home_ to him. Soft seating scatters over an extra-large red Persian Mohajeran rug taking up most of the dark hardwood floor in his sitting room, and one wall is entirely made up of bookshelves that touch the ceiling, ancient tomes to recent Muggle romance novels filling in every nook and cranny of space. His kitchen has stainless steel features, marbled granite tops, and well-used pots and pans hanging above a majestic island decorated with Muggle and wizarding gadgets alike. Draco places the box of potion vials down beside his spice rack and puts the kettle on before opening the cabinet doors above his Muggle cooker. Pansy perches on the edge of the island, an act he’s scolded her for far too many times to count. He’s too exhausted to do more than glare at her. She clucks her tongue and returns his glare.

“Half of your face is bruised and you’re dressed in St Mungo’s clothing. I’d say you’re far from fine, so don’t lie to me, Draco. Tell me what’s happened,” she demands tersely, tucking a strand of her bobbed, jet-black hair behind a jewelled ear. “Were you mugged last night?” It was a concern he’d always voice to Pansy when they first forayed about in Muggle London. He wasn’t too keen on turning his wand on a Muggle and landing in front of the Wizengamot. He stops rummaging through his cabinet for the Prince of Wales loose tea and hangs his head. Merlin, how he wishes it had been just a simple mugging. 

 _Rape_ , offers a tiny voice in the back of his head.

The word makes him want to shrivel up and disappear. He hates hearing it, reading it, thinking it. Even the act of forming his lips, relaxing his jaw and tongue just enough to produce the word causes a rush of nausea to overcome him. It’s a filthy word rivaling the filthy feeling that seems to have permeated his skin. The truth of his circumstance now exists in his very blood. Perhaps the universe was punishing him for all his crimes against Muggles growing up—a fucked up poetic justice. He idly wonders what his father would think about this – still so focused after all they’ve been through on bloody purity – aware his only heir has been rendered impure by a Muggle against a grimy brick wall of an alley. Draco shakes away the thought. He’s worked too hard learning about the Muggle world and the need for equality to slip back into nasty habits and thoughts. He doesn’t want to dwell on disgusting old prejudices or Lucius, who had fucked off to Paris, dragging Mother right along with him, only minutes after being handed a not guilty verdict at their trials.

Draco inhales and exhales slowly. “Really, it’s nothing,” he says. There’s a brief, strained pause and he can feel the disquiet crackling between them. He repeats firmly, “It’s _nothing.”_

“I’d like to believe you,” Pansy says in a hushed tone.

He can feel sweat beading across his forehead, loose strands from his bun sticking to it. He doesn’t want to think about _the stranger_ , but with Pansy’s worried hazel eyes pinned to the side of his face, nearly burning a hole through him, he can’t help but curl his shoulders inward. There’s a gnawing grief chewing at him from the inside of his body, a monstrous thing threatening to escape. He takes a deep breath.

 _Fucking Pansy_. _And her fucking concern. And her fucking inordinate, ill-timed arrivals._

The potion vials. The smarting cheek. The dull ache all over his body and in places he’s too ashamed to even think about. All of it. The reality of the situation is a powerful fist of anguish that punches him square in his chest. He feels as if he’s drowning, too many emotions consuming him at once, and he thinks, _this is what it feels like to go crazy_. It wouldn’t be the Dark Lord living in his house, or watching the murders of professors and fellow students, or torturing innocent people and being tortured that would make him lose his mind – it would be _this._ In his frustration, he slams a fist onto the surface of his countertop, ignoring Pansy’s sharp gasp, the force so hard the porcelain cups and silver teaspoons clink against each other.  

 _“Draco?_ ” Pansy whispers, panic colouring her tone. _“_ What’s _happened?”_ He turns to face her and he literally sees the peachy tones in her cheeks drain away. He starts to tremble, his entire body vibrating with such a force, his teeth clatter. He stumbles towards the nearest seat – a stepping stool he collapses onto as soon as the back of his legs hit it. The stool is mainly for Pansy, who visits him the most out of his collection of friends, and who also happens to be the shortest. It was a sign of welcome for her, even though she could just whip out her wand to collect something out of reach, he was thinking of her regardless when setting up his home. It’s one of many sentimental acts they often do for one another, but rarely openly discuss.

Her heart-shaped face continues to pale as she watches him tremble. Pansy slides off the island, her arms coming up to wrap around his body. He jerks away from the touch. Pansy reels back from the abrupt recoil, her face contorting with alarm. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, tearing his eyes away from her. Pansy reaches for him again, slowly this time, and he leans into her touch, head resting against the swell of her breasts, his arms wrapping tightly around her small body, anchoring him. She rests her head atop of his, her hands caressing soothing circles around his back as she rocks him from side to side. He wants nothing more than to drown in Pansy’s perfumed scent of comfort, lulled to sleep like a babe. He feels so stupid, so unbelievably, irrevocably stupid. He should be capable of handling this better. He survived the Dark Mark, for Merlin’s sake. He had stood before the epitome of evil and had swallowed his fears so he could take the Mark upon the tender flesh of his forearm. _That_ was excruciating pain, an invasion of his mind and body. He had assured himself many times since the end of the war he’d never experience something so debilitating again. He would never again be owned, branded, and desecrated by someone. He had assured himself that blatant lack of control would never happen, nothing could ever hurt him the way the Dark Lord had hurt him. Now he feels as if he’s been branded a million times over. This time he doesn’t think he’ll survive it.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts when Pansy squeezes him. She’s so warm pressed against him like this, and it’s such a contrast to her usual icy outward appearance. He _loves_ Pansy, has done so since they were in nappies together and she’d stolen Blaise’s binky for him to suckle on to soothe his ire. He knows that even though she can be aloof and unsympathetic to others, she’s always been there for _him_. She always nurtures him. Protects him. Cares about him.

“Last night when I left the pub I was attacked by a Muggle and he raped me,” he admits in one rushed, ragged breath, cringing over the filthy word. Pansy gasps, her hands stilling against his back. Draco pulls away from her. Her mouth opens and closes before she swallows, her eyes wide with shock. She reaches out to pull him to her again and he lets her. He can tell she wants to throw a million questions his way, but he’s happy she keeps them to herself for now. “I Apparated to St Mungo’s and—” A lump forms in his throat to cut him off and instead he takes a deep breath, the words he wants to say a jumble in his own head. The kettle hisses and he disentangles himself to stand. Her arms fall limply to her side. He faces the cooker, shaking hands blindly reaching out to turn the electric hob off and place the kettle to the side. It’s a blissful momentary distraction from the look of abject horror on Pansy’s face. He  prepares two cups of tea with Earl Grey, having no idea where his Prince of Wales is. He’s calming down through the monotonous act of preparing the tea. “It wasn’t that bad,” he says thickly. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“Oh, Draco,”she whispers. He doesn’t have to turn around to see the wrecked look on her face when it’s so clear in her voice. “How did this even _happen?_ How did he overpower you?”

Draco winces. Her tone isn’t accusatory or filled with disbelief, not at all, it’s innocuously perplexed and he doesn’t blame her for it, he blames himself because she’s right in what’s been left unsaid. He’s a bloody wizard, yet a Muggle overpowered him. And not only that, he’s a _man,_ why did he not fight back? When the silence uncomfortably stretches between them he sighs and curls in on himself, shame once again roaring in his chest like Fiendfyre as he drops a tea infuser into each mug. Draco had been met with much more direct, accusing questions from the Aurors – _What were you doing in a Muggle area? Did you have your wand on you? If it’s a true case of self-defence, why didn’t you use magic? How drunk were you? How many drinks did you consume exactly? Do you have sex with men? Are you gay? Could you have possibly enticed him? Could this have started off as consensual? Are you sure you didn’t ask the Muggle for sex? —_ but the line of questioning had stopped at Siobhan’s indignant protests. Five years after the war and little has changed for him as a social pariah, still very much an ex-Death Eater and a stain on society despite his efforts to prove otherwise. The Aurors probably believed he deserved it, but instead they settled on saying – ‘ _You were at the wrong place at the wrong time’_ and ‘ _Rapists prey on drunk people.’_ It did little to quell his anxiety or the crippling shame he felt. “I couldn’t,” he starts, closing his eyes and swallowing. “I couldn’t reach my wand, he…he had me pinned against a wall.”

He feels lightheaded. The room tilts on its side and spins wildly, and he finds the floor is slipping beneath his feet as he’s brought back to the rotten egg smell of the alley. The weight of the stranger as he presses against him, hot laboured breath on the back of his neck. Calloused hands leave a scorched pattern across his flesh. The cold tip of a blade against his neck. The sound of his ribs breaking under a steel-toed boot.

He sinks down onto the floor, one white-knuckled hand clenching the edge of the counter as he huddles against the cabinet. Pansy follows him, legs tucking beneath her as a hand comes out to grasp his knee in consolation. He grits his teeth before taking another round of slow, deep breaths in through his nose and out his mouth before covering his face with his hands, uncaring of the throbbing pain in his cheek.

“I’m so sorry. I could _kill_ the bloody bastard if he were in front of me right now,” Pansy says angrily. “You didn’t deserve this…after everything, after the _war_ …”

Draco pulls his hands away and takes in the tears forming in her eyes. He feels a pang of self-pity at her words but dismisses it. He doesn’t want to spend any more time pitying himself. Pansy, she’s trying to console him and he’s let this go on far enough – he doesn’t want to turn into an emotional wreck. “It’s fine,” he whispers hoarsely, subdued. “I just need to catch my breath. I’m going to be fine, Pans. It really wasn’t that bad,” he repeats again, the words sounding like a plea rather than an affirmation. Pansy averts her gaze to the cabinet behind his left shoulder, her lower lip and chin slightly quivering. _Fuck_ , he doesn’t want her to cry. He hasn’t cried. He wants none of this to matter come morning. “I just want to forget about it,” he states, his voice exhausted and miserable. “ _Please_ , Pansy.”

Pansy nods, her hair falling into her face before she draws herself into an impeccable posture. She squeezes his knee once more before taking her hand away to wipe the tears from her cheeks, her troubled expression shifting into a typical bland expression he knows is for his sake. She’s rational, always looking forward, never stuck in the same spot and certainly never looking back. Draco admires that so much about her. With a sniff, she releases a stuttering breath. “Am I the only person you’ve told since leaving St Mungo’s?” He nods. “What are you going to do about Potter?” Draco tenses. He hasn’t forgotten about Potter. He made up his mind about him in hospital, right before sleep conquered his weary body.

There’s no way in hell he’s going to tell him.

Their relationship all started when Potter, the thoughtful and yet ridiculous bastard he is, remembered to return Draco’s wand. Draco owled him with his thanks. After several bitingly funny and — though he’ll never admit aloud to reciprocating – _flirtatious_ owl correspondences, they agreed to have drinks together. Drinks turned into a tumultuous friendship lasting roughly six months. Then they embarked on six months of tumultuous fucking on almost every surface in Grimmauld Place and here in Draco’s lovely High Street Kensington flat. Then there was about two months of radio silence between them after Potter admitted to Draco he wanted more and Draco admitted to not knowing what he wanted, so he’d run away from Potter’s earnestness. But he’d come back. And now they’ve been dating, _officially dating_ , for a year, not counting the first weird year they spent together. He’s just _now_ coming to terms with his feelings about their future together—promising, _maybe_. Telling Potter will ruin the delicate machinations he’s built in navigating through his feelings for the other man. They have a good thing going right now. Despite the last year of dating, Potter has his life, Grimmauld, Draco has his life, his flat. They see each other five out of the seven days in a week. Even their friends have mingled together to the point of absurdity – far beyond just birthdays and holidays, hence the need for Slytherin Pub Nights. Draco was even gifted his first Weasley jumper this past Christmas, and what _that_ meant was all a little too overwhelming for him.

Potter sees him as a part of his little mishmash of a family, sees Draco as _his_. Draco has been owned before – owned by his Father, owned by crazy pure-blood expectations, owned by the Dark Lord. He wants… _needs…_ to hold onto his newly attained autonomy. Potter’s influences are _everywhere_ lately, from the Muggle gadgets in his kitchen to Potter’s poor excuse for shampoo in Draco’s shower. He enjoys being with Potter, can even say he’s _greatly fond_ of the Gryffindor shite, but he doesn’t know if what they have is forever – he still wonders how the hell they haven’t tried to kill each other again. Maybe it’s only a matter of time. Maybe this relationship will end terribly and Draco will not only be _That Ex-Death Eater_ , but he’ll be _That Ex-Death Eater That Broke the Chosen One’s Heart_ – and won’t _that_ fallout with the public be fun to deal with. So of course he had panicked when Potter had offered to take things further, Draco had once again run from the situation. They had an awful row Friday afternoon and in the evening, Draco had gone out drinking. If he tells Potter this, he’ll certainly make it impossible for him to forget the whole ordeal. Maybe even blame himself for Draco getting attacked, as the Gryffindor shite is wont to do. Then they _will_ break up. The man simply isn’t the type to let perceived injustices go and Draco’s not the type to be made into a charity case. He shakes his head, considering Pansy’s patiently waiting face before responding. “It’s better if I don’t tell him.”

“Okay,” Pansy says neutrally, not betraying a hint of how she feels about the decision on her face. Draco has an inkling, though. She probably thinks he’s making a mistake. Or perhaps he’s projecting, he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t question it further. “I’d like to stay with you tonight, if that’s alright? I don’t think you should be alone right now.” He can feel a nerve twitch in his jaw. He doesn’t need to be watched over. He needs to be alone with a vial of Dreamless Draught and his bed.

“I’ll be okay, Pansy, really – I just want to forget—”

“— _I know._ Just, tonight. _Please_ , Draco. Just tonight. Let me be here for you.” Her tone is controlled and firm and yet Draco can still discern the prickling wild fear and pity tightly interwoven in her voice. Draco looks away from her, her silently pleading face too much to bear. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad to have someone here with him, if only to chase away the shadows of his own dark thoughts tonight. He lifts a shoulder in a careless half shrug.

“Fine.”

____

When Draco stirs the next morning, the first thing he realises is he feels absolutely nothing. He waits, with hopeful bated breath, staring up at his high ceiling and trying to count the tiny cracks marring the orange peel texture. Several minutes pass by. No pain, no anger, no threat of tears – he feels absolutely _nothing_. He’s content, suspended in this numbness clouding the worst 24 hours of his life. Again, he reflects on Siobhan calling him a _survivor_ and _brave_. For someone who has been a coward his entire life, _survival_ is not synonymous with _bravery_ at all for him. He’s committed a multitude of abysmal deeds in his lifetime to simply _survive_ , the faded Dark Mark on his left arm being a prime example. He’s not brave at all. It’s something he embraced years ago. This is fine. He doesn’t need to rationalise anything away with labels like “victim” and “survivor” or “brave” and “weak” if whatever’s lurking beyond the surface doesn’t need to be addressed in the first place.

He tears his eyes from the ceiling to stare at his duvet where the early morning rays spilling between his window blinds stretch out across it, shaped like reedy branches. There’s an incoherent mumble beside him and he turns a bit to see Pansy facing towards him and still asleep, both hands tucked under her head. What’s the point of any of this? Draco wonders. She should have gone home.

“Well, at least you’ve kept your bed warm,” says an amused voice from the bedroom door. Draco sits up to find Potter standing there, holding two takeaway cups with the Starbucks emblem on them. “If I didn’t know you were such a raging queen I’d be horribly upset right now,” Potter teases, his face lighting up with a grin as he makes his way towards the bed. “Will you accept my ‘sorry I called you a git, we don’t have to move in together just yet so please stop ignoring me, you git’ coffee?” His smile fades with a gasp. _Fuck._ Draco has yet to look in a mirror, but after taking his potions last night, Pansy had told him he still had some faint bruising on the left side of his face. His throat constricts, and like the breaking of a dam, the rush of emotions he had hoped wouldn’t make an appearance flood his blissfully quiet mind. There’s so many feelings crashing about his head as he stares at Potter – relief and pleasure, fear and shame, regret and anger and pain, so much fucking _pain_ — all roiling about like a wild tide. He hasn’t used Occlumency in years, realising after the war that preventing himself from feeling any sort of empathy would soon make him into a monster. He’s seen too many monsters in his short life already to ever aspire to be one. He can’t stomach the use of Occlumency now, but he needs it. At a great cost to him and with an even greater effort, he reigns in the flurry of emotions, balling them up, and locking them away in a corner of his mind. He feels itchy. He looks up at Potter with a blank face.

“Draco, what the hell happened to your face?” Draco opens his mouth to stumble out some sort of answer but Pansy jumps in.

“He was mugged on his way home, Potter,” Pansy says, now awake and looking terribly unimpressed by Potter’s appearance in the bedroom. “He had to spend the night at St Mungo’s. As you can see.” She gestures towards his cheek and St Mungo’s jumper.

“You were _mugged?_ This fucking piece of shit  _hit you?”_ Potter hisses in anger. He squares his shoulders as he moves closer to peer into Draco’s bruised face. At Draco’s continued silence, Potter tears his eyes away from his face to glare at Pansy who’s sitting up to fluff Draco’s 100 percent Hungarian goose down pillows before reclining against them. “You said you didn’t know where he was!” Potter snarls.

“At the time I didn’t…I came by last night, not that I’m to answer for this, Potter, so kindly check your attitude!” Pansy says sharply. “And to answer your _stupidly_ obvious question, it’s clear some Muggle arsehole caught him by surprise with a right hook.” Pansy’s words seem to deflate Potter’s anger because he has the decency to look sheepish as he draws his attention back to Draco.

“Yeah, you’re right, Pansy,” Potter sighs. “I know it’s not your fault, it’s just, _fuck_ , Draco.” Potter sits the coffees down on the nightstand and tenderly places his warm fingers on Draco’s chin, tipping it upward to get a better look at the bruising. Potter hisses once again, his teeth exposed and clenched in apparent sympathy. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Why didn’t you have one of the Healers ring me? I would have come right away.” Draco rolls his eyes and swats at Potter’s hand.

“I told you before not to use silly terms of endearment with me, Potter. And it’s nothing to worry your tiny brain over. He punched me and the Healers kept me overnight to monitor my concussion,” he drawls, and it’s smooth. He’s surprised at how smooth the lie comes out, even with his Occlumency shutters high in defence. He’s so grateful for Pansy’s quick ability to lie, like the perfect snake she is. All thoughts of wanting her to go home last night fly out the window; he could kiss her right now.

Potter settles on the edge of the bed, as close as he can get to Draco without getting into bed with him and Pansy, and like the emotional Gryffindor bastard he is, reaches out to grasp his hand so he can lift it to his lips. He plants several small kisses across his knuckles. “What did he take from you?” he asks. Draco makes a small aggrieved sound in the back of his throat, his shoulders tensing at Potter’s question.

_Nothing._

_Everything._

“Just my Muggle dosh,” he whispers, trying and failing to sound indifferent. He’s become quite shit at compartmentalising his feelings.

“Merlin,” Potter says, squeezing Draco’s hand comfortingly. “Is there anything I can do? Did you file an Auror report?”

“No, I didn’t. As I said, it wasn’t a big deal, Potter, so _drop_ it,” he says in his gravest of voices. Potter nods, his lips petulantly pursed as if he wants to retaliate. With this concession, Draco knows his decision will be respected. Draco sometimes wonders how he landed Potter, he’s so foolishly trusting, compassionate, and respectful. These are all attributes Draco surely doesn’t deserve to have in a boyfriend, let alone be showered with daily. This is something he mulls over a lot – his kismet will go off the rails. Draco doesn’t know for how long he’ll have Potter, but right now he knows he wants him, has always wanted him, and can’t see ever going off him.

“Well. What else can I do?” Potter asks.

Flooded with affection, Draco leans forward to kiss Potter softly on the lips, Pansy’s presence be damned. He uses his free hand to run his fingers through Potter’s messy black hair, fisting the overlong strands at his nape to pull Potter closer for another chaste kiss.

“You said something about an apology. This will be best rendered with a full English, so get to it, Potter,” he says tenderly. For the first time in over 24 hours, a small smile creeps across his face.  

\----

Breakfast is a quieter affair than usual as they amble around the kitchen. He sets three plates on the island, averting his gaze from the stool he collapsed on and the unfinished cups of tea still perched on the counter from the night before. Potter says nothing about the cups as he clears them away with a flick of his wand and begins a proper fry up. Soon the kitchen fills with the sizzle of meat and eggs and the smell of bacon permeates the air. Potter’s transfigured a dish towel into a cooking apron with a pattern of tiny broomsticks. Between Potter’s tuneless humming, Pansy fills the stretches of silence with incessant insults about Potter’s hair and cooking abilities. Draco sips on the coffee Potter brought. The other sits at Pansy’s elbow and even though she complains about “Muggle swill” she happily drinks from it. It all sounds like background static to him as he stares blankly across the kitchen. He tries to focus on not thinking about anything at all and it works. It takes Potter calling his name a few times for him to snap out of his daze, and when he stares down, there’s a plate of food in front of him. Potter smiles at him as he asks where his mind is. From the corner of his eyes he can see Pansy’s pale, withdrawn face.

When he later leads Pansy towards the fireplace, she pulls him into a tight hug, burying her face into his chest. “I want you to come around to mine tomorrow, do you hear me?” she whispers. When he doesn’t respond, she pulls away and stares up at him. He feels slightly sick when he sees the brightness of her eyes, tears caught on the bottom of her inky black lashes. He nods and she throws herself at him once more before she is whisked away to her own flat. He decides on a quick shower, leaving Potter to clean up the mess in his kitchen.

He locks the door and quickly turns the lights off, plunging himself and his surroundings into complete darkness. He doesn’t want to look at himself, has avoided it since Friday. He swallows down his disgust as he peels off the St Mungo’s issued clothes he slept in and carefully walks towards the tub to turn the shower on. _Just look_ , a tiny voice says. _Just get it over with. Look._ He glances over to the mirror and swearing under his breath, stands in front of it. He flicks the light on.

He doesn’t know the person staring back at him.

There’s an angry puff of inflamed pinkish-red skin starting on his hipbone and extending to his back from the splinching, and this bothers him fiercely. The dittany the Healers had applied at St Mungo’s worked well enough, as the puncture wound on his neck is completely gone, but the rest of his body is stubbornly refusing to heal, and he’s certain he’ll have this particular scar for the rest of his life. When he had been hit with _Sectumsempra_ the scars had healed relatively quick – and that was a cursed injury. He grimaces as his eyes roam over the grotesque fading bruises decorating his thin chest, jutting collarbones, and taut stomach. His skin has an ugly grey tinge to it and his usually luscious, shoulder-length white blond hair is limp and dingy. A faint yellow and green bruise still adorns the left side of his face. He looks worse than he did during his stint in Azkaban awaiting trial. He knows the bruising will disappear by tomorrow, but _fuck_ , to see the remnants of the violent night still decorating his skin like this makes him sick to his stomach. A wave of anger slips pass his mental defences – it flares through him like Fiendfyre and the mirror cracks. He releases a startled gasp, the mirror cracking further from his accidental magic. He stares at his broken reflection with incredulity. Where was his accidental magic then? His magic failed him when he had needed it most.

In the shower, he bites down on his knuckles. He lowers the shutters he’s pulled into place since Potter’s arrival. He allows himself to feel it, _all_ of it. He feels like something, he has no word for it, has been ripped from him. He feels _wrong._  And for the first time in years, he feels frightened. There’s a pressure in his chest, squeezing him. And he realises: this is grief, weighty and consuming.

He covers his mouth with both hands, stifling the devastated sobs that rattle through him, the pounding of the spray drowning out the terrible sound until he is reduced to small whimpers. The scorching hot water and lavender soap that sluices his body does nothing to wash away this pain and rage as he curls his arms around his body, rocking side to side under the spray to calm himself.

A part of him still feels suspended in disbelief. It all sounds so ridiculous to him— the stranger lurking in the shadows to cause harm, stranger danger, _men_ getting sexually assaulted. What’s stranger danger when you have a wand? It’s not supposed to happen. It’s not supposed to happen to _him._ Dark, shadowy memories creep into his mind, replaying all his thoughtless oversights from Friday night. He should have left with Pansy or Blaise after the pub night. He should have had less to drink, maybe his magic wouldn’t have failed him. He would have reached his wand sooner or it would have been Summoned into his palm. Or he would have felt the ominous shift in the air around him and noticed how quiet the street was. Maybe he would have seen the lone figure lurking in the bowels of the alley, stealthily moving towards the mouth. Maybe he would have crossed the fucking street sooner. But most of all, he feels stupid for not having fought back enough. He hadn’t move, he’d become paralysed and allowed the stranger to hurt him. If he had been more careful, stronger, he wouldn’t be _here_ , in the shower, still pugnaciously scrubbing off the dried bodily fluids the Healers couldn’t or wouldn’t get rid of with a _Tergeo_ for the sake of a fucking rape kit. He takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool, wet wall. He needs to pull himself together. A thought strikes him.

This didn’t happen to _him_. No. Just this body.

A knock on his bathroom’s door and a rattle of the doorknob interrupts his sombre thoughts. Startled, he clears his throat. “Hey, Draco…” Potter’s concerned voice calls from the other side of the door. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, just give me a minute, Potter, I’m in the shower!” he shouts back, relieved it’s the irritation and not the grief he feels coming across in his voice.  

“Untwist your wand, why don’t you? I’m just checking on you. Wanted to know if you’d like some company,” Potter says suggestively, the smile clear in his voice.

Draco sags against the wall before he slumps down onto the floor of the shower, wrapping his arms around his knees. “N-no!” Draco shouts, heart thudding against his ribcage in anxiety. It’s not often he turns down a shared shower— not even the threat of being late for a meeting deters him —  but he doesn’t want Potter to see his useless, battered body. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Er…Sure,” Potter says. Draco closes his eyes, picturing the confused and dejected look on Potter’s face. _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t want you to see this,_ he whispers in his head _._ “Are you certain you’re okay?” Potter asks imploringly.

“Yes! Are you quite done _bothering_ _me?_ ” he shouts back. He knows he’s being an arsehole to him and for once in his entirety of knowing Potter, it makes him feel slightly sick. He’s not being an arsehole to be cruel, or charming, or funny, which is how he usually justifies the behaviour. He’s being an arse because he’s fucking scared and he hates himself for it.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” comes Potter’s strained response.

“Fine!” he calls back quickly, leaning his head against the wall, his Adam’s apple jumping as he swallows a thick ball of emotion. He _can_ do this. Things will go back to normal soon enough. Potter will forget all about his prickly behaviour in a couple of days. But for now, he presses his face into his knees to muffle his sobs and lets go once more –lets the tears roll down his cheeks. His hair falls around his face like a wet curtain and he’s cocooned as he embraces the wave of misery that overcomes him. His tears are salty on his wet lips. The loss and anger is unbearable, like the painful bottomless curl of a dark curse.


	3. Chapter Three

A week flies by. Draco is surprised how effortlessly life around him carries on.

Some things have changed, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

The anti-viral potions he’s on makes him sluggish and more than once he’s lost his dinner after consuming a dose, so now he skips dinner. He throws himself into his brewing. He schedules meetings with all the departments in St Mungo’s, coming across a surprised Trainee Healer Meadow once and offering her a nasty scowl to ward away any enquiries into his well-being. He does an inventory check of all their potions to determine what needs to be replenished. He usually spends one week working with each department at St Mungo’s, but he crams all his meetings in one work week. He doesn’t leave his flat unless it’s to Floo to the hospital and Floo right back. He has taken to sleeping with his wand under his pillow instead of placed in the holder on his nightstand. He also leaves the wireless on a low volume, just a mumble, throughout the night. He’s learned that in complete silence, his mind will wander and flashes of the attack will play across his eyes like a Muggle film.  

His body still aches, but he thinks this may be psychosomatic. Focusing on work is like swimming through a pool of thick mud— words escape him when he’s trying to hold a conversation, he feels disoriented, often misplacing things and cocking up a potion, and he’s tired all the time— but he completes each day’s work, no matter how many times he needs to re-do something or take small breaks in between. He considers this a small victory. He’s ignored lunch invites from Pansy five times in a row and for the first time in nearly a year, he turns down Friday Slytherin Pub Night _._ He assures everyone it’s because he’s incredibly busy. Pansy knows better, but she’s kept his secret despite all her unanswered owls piling up in his letter box.

He tells Potter he can’t spend the night at Grimmauld but he’s more than welcome to stay at his flat if he doesn’t interrupt his meetings and brewing. Potter’s understanding, but Draco can tell he’s more nervous lately. Potter doesn’t spend the night at his flat all week nor does he try to engage Draco in sex. They have dinner together each night. Sometimes Potter will arrive early enough to cook for them or Draco will owl in takeaway. When Potter makes his way to the Floo after dinner, he pulls Draco in for a slow kiss before spinning away.

Draco finds Potter’s distance both a relief as well as a concern – it’s a weird combination of emotions. He misses Potter touching him but he’s grateful for the absence. He convinces himself the distance is all well and truly for the best.

That is, until Sunday evening, when the dreams start.

__________________________

_Draco’s happily warm from the multiple whiskey sours Pansy, Blaise, Greg, and Theo plied him with at the Muggle pub in Hackney. The pavements are slick with rain this evening, but the air is thick and humid for February, and it settles over the city like a warm blanket, a breeze rustling the naked trees lining the dark, empty street he’s walking down. They always meet up on Friday evenings for drinks all over the city, and today Pansy has decided on this area. A bit dodgy, it still offers a lot of potential to be something great, with its green fields and busy shops. He likes it. He almost forgets why he decided to get pissed tonight, the row he had with Potter earlier today fading to the back of his mind already. He doesn’t know why he’s so difficult with Potter sometimes, but he’s ready to head over to Potter’s house, tail tucked between his legs and a rare apology on his lips. He’s ready to concede to Potter’s not so daft idea of moving in together. Bloody hell, he’s going from ‘greatly fond of’ to ‘possibly in love with’ the stupid four-eyed bastard._

_He stumbles a bit, feeling silly and a bit uncouth, but with no one around he doesn’t feel as embarrassed as he should be. He’s just on the right side of too inebriated to Apparate and without a Floo available decides to catch a bus near the Dalston Kingsland Overground to Islington. Potter has shown him around the city via tube and bus for over a year now and he’s excited to rub it in his face later that he can navigate his way back to Islington from Hackney with no problems._

_He’s passing an alley that’s beside an overpass when someone wraps their hand around his ponytail and yanks him backwards, a hand coming up to cover his mouth._

He sits up in bed, his breathing rapid and his heart racing painfully in his chest. He presses his fingers to his lips as he tries to shake the jittery twinges erupting across his skin. The hand over his mouth had felt so _real_ , as if he were being grabbed all over again. Shivering and without much thought, he kicks the duvet off his body, grabs his wand, pushes onto his bare feet and heads to his sitting room. Once in front of the fireplace, he grabs a handful of Floo powder and pauses.

He doesn’t want to be alone right now, despite being unsure of the time – it’s dark, the moon is out and light pours through his bay windows. It’s so silent, it’s nearly oppressive. Pansy would surely come through the Floo if he called, but he hesitates. She’ll want to talk about the dream, about what happened to him, and he’s promised himself never to talk about _it_ again.

He throws an _Incendio_ into the fireplace and kneels before it. He knows what he wants – he wants to be touched, to be held, and comforted in a way he knows Pansy simply can’t provide. He throws the powder into the fire, waits for it to turn emerald green, and sticks his head into the flames to call out for Grimmauld Place.

Once he pulls back, Kreacher’s eerie eyes and bulbous nose greets him.

“Young Master Black,” the elf croaks. “To what is we be owing this pleasure tonight?”

Draco rolls his eyes. He’s always hated Potter’s elf. The little monster is downright barmy and disobedient. He’s also ugly as sin – with those creepy, unblinkingly wide blue eyes that look nearly milky in the light. Draco shudders involuntarily. “Kreacher,” he greets stiffly. “Go wake Potter up for me.”

“Master Harry be expecting you?” Kreacher asks pointedly. Draco scowls.

“I am not in the mood for your insubordination, elf. Go wake Potter up now before I _Crucio_ you through these flames.” He’s almost sure he catches a smug little smirk on Kreacher’s face before he disappears. Before he can question whether this is a good idea or not, Potter’s face appears before him.

“Draco, are you okay?” Potter’s voice is rough with sleep but his eyes are alert and lit with concern, mane of hair a wilder mess than usual and face free of his glasses. He’s always been fond of Potter’s look after waking – rumpled, soft and oh so kissable. A warm feeling of affection washes over him.

“I will be once you come over,” he whispers. Potter raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question him any further, he just nods. Draco quickly scoots away from the hearth as Potter steps through. He’s shirtless and only wearing a pair of scarlet boxer-briefs with tiny snitches on them. Draco stands and immediately wraps his arms around Potter’s bare torso and presses his still tingling lips against Potter’s shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says, voice muffled.

“Say no more,” Potter responds, wrapping his arms around him, too, inhaling his scent and kissing the side of his face. “Bed?” Draco nods. “Okay,” Potter says, pulling away but clasping their hands together. Potter lifts his hand to place a soft kiss on the inside of his wrist before turning to shut down the Floo.

 

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Draco mutters once they’re in bed under the duvet together. They’re both facing each other and Draco takes the opportunity to feast on Potter’s open face. Potter is properly beautiful. His iridescent green eyes seem to gleam in the moonlit bedroom, the light and shadows cast over him emphasising his strong jaw, the stubble across it, his thin but shapely lips, the famous lightning bolt shaped scar peeking from under his messy fringe. “You didn’t even grab your glasses…or clothing, for that matter.”

“S’fine,” Potter whispers, voice thick with exhaustion. “I’ve felt a bit off all week not sleeping next to you. Was too eager to come through to think about the little things I was missing when I was really just missing _you.”_ Draco snorts.

“You’re a terrible sap, Potter,” he says, but bites his lower lip to clamp down on the pleased smile threatening to cross his face. That’s the thing about Potter. He’s a sap and he’s terrible with words, but when he tries it’s endearingly Gryffindorish and Draco’s finding he doesn’t mind it. He’s starting to appreciate Potter’s shit way with words just as much as the long looks, the gentle caresses, and the sweet kisses he bestows on him. Potter chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners and reaches out an arm to curl around Draco’s waist to pull him in closer, his fingers skimming the soft cotton t-shirt Draco’s worn to bed. Beside him like this, Draco can almost forget the reasons why they haven’t slept next to one another all week, or why he needed the other man here tonight in the first place. _Almost_. “I’m mad about you, you know,” Potter whispers after a few moments of silence.

“I know,” Draco says. Potter says this to him often. Draco knows it’s the closest he’ll get to an _I love you_ from him. If Draco’s feeling insecure about their relationship, Merlin knows Potter must be as well, especially after their most recent row about moving in together. Draco sighs as he runs his knuckles down Potter’s brawny chest and taut stomach, courtesy of his Auror training. “I’m awfully fond of you, as well,” he whispers, his hand now coming up to run his fingers through the hair at the nape of Potter’s neck. He leans forward the couple of inches between them to press his lips against Potter’s—they’re dry and his breath is still minty from brushing his teeth. They kiss gently, but soon Draco’s mouth opens under Potter’s as his tongue slides across his bottom lip. Potter growls as his arm tightens around him, tugging him forward so he’s now resting half his weight on the other man. The kiss becomes heated, his breath catching in his throat, a moan escaping from him against Potter’s mouth as Potter slips a hand under the thin material of his shirt to caress his hot skin. Draco’s fingers are tightening in his hair when Potter’s mouth stops moving against his.

Draco stops, too, because he’s now registering, with a slow dawning horror, Potter frantically fingering the horrible splinching scar.

“Draco…” Potter says, tone breathy and full of concern. “What is this?” Potter’s now pulling his hand away. With a sharp flick of Potter’s wrist, Draco’s bedroom lights turn on. Draco opens his mouth, but words fail him, and instead he stares at Potter with wide eyes. He swallows, but before he can answer, Potter pushes the duvet down, his hands now back on Draco’s body, guiding him onto his back and lifting his shirt, unruly head bent over and squinting at the scar. “What the fuck happened?” Draco’s shivers as he notes the slight anxious tremor in Potter’s voice and furrowing brow as perplexed green eyes snap up to his carefully blank face despite the maelstrom of anger and shame colliding about in his chest. Draco considers using Occlumency, but lately can’t stomach the sensation of bugs crawling across his skin when he uses it. He’s interrupted from his thoughts as Potter reaches out to touch the scar again. Draco’s hand darts out to stop him, long fingers encircling Potter’s wrist, his free hand grasping the bottom of his bunched shirt to roughly tug over this scarred body. He bites back the desire to lash out at Potter in indignation as he releases Potter’s wrist.

He should have known better than to invite Potter into his bed so soon after what’s happened to this body. It’s a gradual process, learning to cope with this scar. He can forget sometimes it’s there because it’s just a part of this body, not his mind, not the core of him, just this useless body that’s failed him both physically and magically. Draco takes a deep breath, collecting his thoughts before they slip away from him like sand through fingers.

“An accident,” he says with forced calmness. “It’s from the mugging—I splinched myself trying to get to St Mungo’s. It just didn’t heal properly.”

“It looks pretty bad, Draco. Why is it so–”

“—I was disoriented, Potter,” he starts sharply, already knowing what Potter is going to ask. “I had just been hit in the face and suffered a concussion. I wasn’t thinking properly at all that night,” he says, closing his eyes at how much the admission hurts. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you.”

“No,” Potter says softly, arms reaching out for him once more. Draco lets himself be pulled into the embrace, Potter’s hair tickling the side of his face as he curls around him. “No, I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you. I should have been there to protect you.”

Draco glares at him. “I don’t need protection, Potter, I made it out quite fine all on my own,” he says, wincing a bit over his own lie. “You’ve never been this attentive before.”

“Bollocks—I most definitely have been.”

Draco smirks. Potter’s right – he is grossly attentive— but Draco likes to be contrary as much as possible in the face of Potter’s Gryffindorianism. “It doesn’t matter. It was Slytherin Pub night. You know the rule: No Gryffindor Prats allowed,” he says with a shrug.

“Maybe you should reconsider that rule,” Potter says with a sage nod.

Draco rolls his eyes. “I think _not._ And it’s not as if I go to your Weasleys on Sundays.”

“Ah, I’ll get you there one day,” Potter says wryly, grinning against the side of Draco’s face. A puff of breath tickles the shell of his ear as Potter clears his throat. “I’m serious, though. I should have been there for you at least at St Mungo’s. I…I just want to be kept in the loop. I don’t know what I would have done if something worse had happened to you and I wasn’t there for you. Muggles may not have wands, but there are other weapons, _knives._ Okay?” Potter says, placing a soft kiss against his cheek. Draco stiffens in his embrace briefly before pulling away and turning his back to him, flopping roughly onto his own pillow. He shivers as he recalls how familiar he is with Muggle weapons, specifically, the press of a knife in the hollow of his neck. “Hey, where’d you go just now?” Potter says gently, his arms once again seeking him out, wrapping around Draco as he spoons him.

“I heard you,” he mumbles. “It’s just late and we both have work in a few hours. Let’s try to sleep, Potter.”

“Okay,” Potter says. “One more thing, though?”

Draco groans. “What?”

“It’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve had all our friends together at one of our flats. Neville was just asking me when he can come by for drinks. The poor sod misses you,” Potter chuckles. “I was thinking Wednesday evening?”

Draco freezes. He’s come to enjoy Longbottom’s company and surprisingly quick wit, but socialising with anyone else right now would surely drain him. He’s not ready yet. “I’m not sure what my schedule will look like, Potter. I can’t make any promises.”

“Oh…er, yeah, I understand. I’ll just tell him we’ll let him know, yeah?”

“That would be best. Now, sleep.” Draco says, sighing in relief. Potter flicks his wrist once more to turn off the lights. Another flick has the duvet rolling over their bodies and tucking them both in.

“Show off,” Draco huffs.

“You love it.” Potter leans in to place a soft kiss in his hair. His chest is a warm presence against his back.

He closes his eyes.

He almost feels safe.

_Almost._

_______________

 

“Fancy a quick romp in one of the utility closets?”

Draco’s jaw goes slack at the suggestion, his cheeks ruddy as Potter sidles up beside him, following him stride for stride towards the Ministry lifts.

“As romantic as that proposition sounds, Potter, I’ll have to pass.”

“Well, a few minutes to chat, at least,” Potter says with a moue of discontent. Draco stops abruptly near an alcove, tucking his files under one arm and quickly pulling his fob watch out from his pocket. The department meeting Robards had held went overtime. What could have been said in a department memo turned into an extra half-hour of unnecessary rambling about upcoming Auror health checks in partnership with St Mungo’s. He has a lot of work to get through, the files from the meeting tucked under his arm nearly burning. What with the new potion requests from the DMLE and an upcoming meeting with the Head Healer at St Mungo’s, he has very little time to waste.

“You’re quite annoying, but I’m sure you take great pride in that, don’t you?” he asks, shooting Potter a lukewarm sneer. Potter gives a low, husky chuckle and Draco appreciates Potter in his full Auror gear—the tight fit about the shoulders and waist of the high-collared scarlet coloured robe, the numerous polished gold buttons, the DMLE insignia on the left top corner, and the knee-high black leather boots. Potter’s hair is pulled up into a knot at the top of his head, stray strands covering his scar and falling a bit into his bottle-green eyes. He looks good enough to eat. Though, as delicious as Potter looks right now, the thought of having sex up against a wall in the Ministry sends a tendril of unease through him. A snog, however, would be nice. A slow, predatory smile crosses his face. “I may be amenable to a quick snog, however.”

“Is that so?” Potter asks, tone wicked. Potter reaches out to grasp his elbow while glancing up and down the nearly empty corridor. He pets his hair, eyes glinting and mischievous. “I do love when your hair is tied back all prim and proper like this…I just want to make a mess of you,” Potter purrs as he presses his body against Draco’s, breath coming out in slow, maddeningly short puffs against Draco’s lips as his eyes search his face. Draco places his hand on Potter’s bicep, his fingers tightening around the generous muscle. For a dazed moment his knees buckle. It all feels so delectably naughty as he melts into Potter’s embrace at work. Potter leans in for a whisper, his lips brushing against Draco’s slightly open mouth. Draco mewls at the touch. “How about that closet –”

“Potter!” shouts Robards. Potter’s boss strides down the corridor, his face apoplectically purple. “I want your arse in my office in five minutes,” the older man growls, beady eyes shrewdly roaming over them, no doubt taking in their intimate position.

Robards clucks his tongue at them before continuing his tread towards the Auror Department. “Right away!” Potter calls out, tucking his head in the crook Draco’s neck to hide his abashed grin. Draco sniggers. “I reckon that’s not anything good,” he says as he lifts his head to quickly peck him on the cheek. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” Draco nods, his good mood spoiling with thoughts of his obligations. After much pestering from Potter, he had finally agreed to a gathering of their friends and had offered to host their catch up at his flat instead of at a Muggle pub, not ready to venture out yet. Potter had seconded the suggestion immediately. “I’ll bring the whisky.”

“Firewhisky. None of the Muggle crap. Grab a bottle of Blishen’s Fire Cinnamon Flavoured Whisky too, for Luna and Girl Weasley.” He cringes as he recalls the horrible, overly sweet tasting alcohol.

Potter shoves him back a bit, eyes rolling. “It’s _Ginny_ , your Highness. I don’t know how they drink that garbage, but if you’re sure I’ll go pick it up. Mind you, I’ll have to head to Carkitt Market to get a bottle of the Blishen’s, so thanks for that.” Potter sticks his tongue out and Draco punches him playfully in the shoulder as Potter laughs, barely catching his breath as he asks, “anything else?”

“Yes, you stupid bastard, since you’ve so _kindly_ asked, stop off at Waitrose and grab those crisps I like.”

“The sea salt ones?” Potter asks, lifting a hand to swipe a thumb over Draco’s bottom lip.

“Yes. Now, go before Robards cuts your bollocks off. You know how attached I am to them,” he says quickly.

“Mm, I don’t know, it’s been a while since you’ve paid them any attention. You might have to remind me,” Potter says gently. Draco goes a bit rigid, the grin wiping clear from his face at Potter’s comment, for the first time hinting at their recent lack of sex. Hurt and unsure of what to say, he’s left gaping. Potter must notice his discomfort because he pulls him into a tight hug. “Hey, hey…you know I wasn’t being serious, pet. Don’t be angry.” Potter whispers the lie in his ear and it’s said with so much saccharine, he nearly believes what Potter says is true. He lets Potter hold him briefly before using a shoulder to gently shove him back.

He’s surprised the remark hurts him as much as it does. Worst of all, he knows Potter’s comment holds some serious weight to it, weight Draco’s not willing to address. A part of him wants to yell at Potter – dig his barely-there nails into his skin and tear into him. He wants to ask how he can be so blind, how he can be so oblivious he can’t see how fucking damaging that comment is. How can he not see what he’s been through? “Off you go,” he says, keeping his voice even. “I’ll see you later.” He kisses Potter this time, on the lips, and watches as Potter pulls away to head towards Robards’s office. Draco slumps against the wall, spent.

“Draco!” calls a warm, feminine voice. He glances to his right, his eyes immediately falling on Hermione’s petite yet imposing form. Her wild bushy hair is hidden under a lavish deep-plum and gold gele that matches her robes tied around her head. She has an air of confidence about her that warrants immediate attention and respect, and he often finds himself standing a bit straighter around her. “Looks like I just missed Harry,” she says, peering down the corridor at Potter’s retreating form.

“Impromptu meeting with Robards,” he answers. Their friendship still takes him by surprise. He’s always taken aback by Hermione’s level of forgiveness and generosity. It almost rivals Potter’s. If anyone would have told him three years ago he’d follow the Gryffindor into her office, then only working as an intern for Magical Creatures, and beg for forgiveness a year after his trial, he would have hexed them into the next millennium. Their friendship was based on intellect as well as affection – from discussing new age wizarding politics and Muggle culture to their love of the history of magic and potions. When she had given birth to Rose, well, Draco’s affections extended to the Mini-Hermione as well. Here he was, standing before a woman he’d once tormented and mistreated as a child, happy to see her. He nods at the scarf on her head.

“Special occasion?” he asks, openly eyeing the stiff material on her head, a small smile twitching at the corner of his lips. Hermione smirks, spreads her arms wide as she does a little tongue-in-cheek bow.

“Just won a heated case against the Goblin Liaison in front of the Wizengamot. The petition for special late-hour days so vampires can bank at Gringotts,” she says looking up at him through thick, dark lashes. “I had to dress for success.” Draco laughs.

“I’m not sure how wise it’ll be to have vampires mingle with humans at Gringotts, Hermione,” he says, laughing harder as she shoots him a fondly impatient look.

“You sound like Ron,” she drawls. “Speaking of Ron, he’s coming by the Ministry. Why don’t I take you both for lunch in the canteen and tell you all about it?”

He gives her a strained smile and rubs his hands together nervously. “I was just about to head back to my lab—”

“Come along, Draco, my treat.” Her tone holds no room for argument even as he opens his mouth to protest. She clasps his elbow in one firm grip and gives it a squeeze, leading him down the corridor.

When they make their way through the canteen, it is too loud—there are so many voices, the cacophony disruptive and grating to his delicate nerves. His breathing becomes laboured as everything around him goes fuzzy, a tension behind his left eye starting to pound fiercely, reverberating throughout his head. He doesn’t know why he’s not saying anything, but Hermione’s hand on his elbow grounds him enough, and he grabs a tray and loads it with soup, a cheese toastie, and a cup of takeaway tea charmed to fill to his preferred taste. They find a seat near the entrance of the canteen and Draco uses his wand to _Scourgify_ the table, carefully placing the bright blue folder containing DMLE potion-related files beside his tray. Hermione chatters away about the benefits of integrating with vampires as he sips his tea, staring warily down at the tomato basil soup he’s grabbed. His nose wrinkles as it bubbles and pops ominously. He wasn’t hungry anyway.

“—I was quite concerned. Why didn’t you report it?”

He looks up at Hermione, catching only the last bit of her question. “What?”

“Harry told me you were mugged a couple of weeks ago. That must have been so traumatising. Why didn’t you report it to the Aurors?” she asks, taking a bite of her side salad, thankfully, not noticing he’s spilled some of his tea on his robes at her question. He quickly grabs his wand to spell it away. Her face twists in disgust, still staring down at the salad in shock as she slowly places her fork down. “Oh, this is awful,” she murmurs. “There’s no way I can eat this.”

Draco’s trying to avoid vomiting up the sip of tea in his stomach. He knows how Hermione likes to latch on to situations if she thinks there’s a problem to be solved, so best not to make this a problem. “I didn’t see the need; it was just a mugging. I’m fine,” he adds hastily.

“That’s what Harry said. I’m just so sorry to hear you had to experience that.” She picks up her corned beef sandwich and bites into it. “Mm…this is marginally better,” she says after chewing and swallowing. “Have you thought about talking to a Mind Healer?”

A look of incredulity crosses his face. “For _what?_ ”

“Draco, you were _mugged._ You had to go to St Mungo’s, which can only speak to the depth of your injuries. Harry said half your face was bruised and you had a concussion!” She makes a tsk’ing noise. “I can’t imagine the mugger was gentle with you.”

“I said I’m fine, Hermione.” He gives her what he hopes is a conciliatory smile. “It’s in the past.” He steels himself against her response. As she opens her mouth, he feels someone wrap their hand around his ponytail, none too gently tugging it back.

“Hey, how’s my favourite poncey ferret doing today?”

“Ron!” Hermione shrieks.

A sharp whimper escapes him, face paling. He drops his tea cup, spilling the contents across the plastic tray, table, and down the front of his robes. He doesn’t register any of the hot liquid on him as he shoots out of his seat, entire body feeling as if he’s been dunked in freezing water. He turns petrified eyes to Hermione’s carefully blank face and Weasley’s puzzled one.

“I have to go,” is all he says before spinning on his heel and briskly heading towards the Atrium.

 

“Draco, are you here?”

Draco is pacing around his sitting room to calm down when Hermione shows up in his Floo, a bright blue folder filled with parchments in her hands. He flushes when he realises he left his documents behind in the canteen.

“Sorry, I wasn’t feeling well and—” he breaks off, embarrassed. Hermione gives him a sympathetic smile, handing over the files. Draco takes them and frowns, an uneasiness he hasn’t felt towards Hermione in years surfacing.

“Well. I’ll just be off. I have to pummel Ron for his stupidity as well as finish my lunch,” she says nonchalantly, seemingly trying to break the awkward atmosphere.

“Yes, of course. Thank you for this,” he says, lifting the files and nodding in appreciation. Draco swallows as an unreadable expression flickers across Hermione’s face. She fixes him with a look of compassion.  

“Draco. If you ever need to talk to someone, about anything, I’m here, okay? Just between us.” He feels a bit faint at her words because Hermione is a borderline genius and has probably slotted together what his little outburst may have been about. He can’t help but wonder what exactly is running through her mind.  

“Yes. Thank you,” he says thinly, averting his gaze down to the folder. She makes a move towards the Floo and he starts. “Hermione!” he calls out. She faces him once more. “Don’t…let’s not mention this to Potter, shall we?”

“Mention what?” she says, quirking an eyebrow. He smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says, making her way towards the Floo once again and grabbing some powder.

“Looking forward to it.”

Hermione is not like Pansy, he thinks. He cares deeply for her, but she doesn’t know him the way Pansy does. Maybe she doesn’t know the multitude of emotions boiling beyond the surface of his politely bland look. She throws him a comforting smile before the emerald green flames engulf her. It takes him nearly an hour before the burning lump in his throat eases. 

_____________________

 

“I think we should set up a playdate with Teddy and Rose, don’t you think, Harry?”

Hermione and Weasley are sat together on an enlarged armchair in front of Draco and Harry. Weasley stares intently at the chessboard between them, elbows resting on his knees with his chin propped up on his hand.

“She’s only eight months, ‘Mione. Teddy is a toddler,” Weasley mumbles, not taking his eyes off the board. Hermione huffs.

“Teddy is developing cooperative play skills; Rose’s social and emotional development would benefit from some gentle play time with him.”

“I think that’s a great idea! Just let me know and I’ll –” the rest of Potter’s following words are unintelligible as he shoves a handful of sea salt crisps into his mouth.

Draco shakes his head in disbelief. “For fuck’s sake,” he says, staring at Potter with clear disgust on his face. “Maybe you should join the children too, Potter, you’re obviously behind in your social development skills, bloody philistine.” He smirks as their friends laugh.

Pansy has her feet propped up in Blaise’s lap. Luna and Girl Weasley are wrapped tightly around each other on the floor, sharing a tumbler of the revolting cinnamon whisky between them and giggling. Greg and Millicent are also sitting on the floor, watching Draco get annihilated in his game of chess with Weasley. Theo and Daphne are sitting beside each other in armchairs, Daphne humming along to the wireless and Theo staring off into the fireplace. Neville and Hannah are sitting in a corner by the bookshelves, talking quietly to each other. Draco’s happy the mood of the room is pleasantly relaxed.

“I’m surprised you’re not off at the Ministry tonight, Potter,” Theo says, sipping from a pony-necked bottle of cider.

“Oh, why do you say that, Nott?” Potter says, his tone flat and bored as he sips from his tumbler of whisky. Draco groans when one of Weasley’s knights knocks his knight off the chessboard. Pansy climbs into Blaise’s lap and snorts inelegantly at something Blaise has whispered in her ear. Draco wonders absently when they’re going to take their _thing_ from flirting to actual relationship – they’ve been dancing around each other for years. Draco picks up his large glass of red wine and sips from it, contemplating his next move. He’s momentarily distracted once again by Greg fiddling with the Muggle wireless Potter gifted Draco with last month. A song with the soft plucks of guitar strings, violins, and a woman with a vaguely French accent singing comes on. Greg leaves it.

“I just figured you wouldn’t have the time, busy Auror like yourself,” Theo says with a shrug. And _there_ goes the mood. Draco glares at him. Theo’s always had a stick up his arse about him dating Potter. When he had first started exploring his sexuality at fifteen, Theo had been the one he’d done so with. They were both young and inexperienced, and although it had been an interesting year, Draco simply didn’t carry a torch for Theo like he did for Draco. Sixth year had come and Draco had been thrown into his task for the Dark Lord, leaving no room to continue his fling. They’d had sex a few times after the war, but then Potter had happened. Potter was fully aware of this and understood Draco valued his friendship with Theo.

“I always have time when it comes to my friends. I especially have time when it comes to Draco,” Potter says, spreading his knees further apart in a casual display of relaxed machismo, taking a sip from his whisky. Draco ducks his head to hide the smile creeping across his face.

“If the _Prophet_ is anything to go by, it seems you have little time for anyone but your missions,” Theo counters, a smug smile on his face. Daphne places a quelling hand on Theo’s wrist, to little effect. Draco pities her—he doesn’t know how she puts up with his bouts of jealousy.

“Shut the fuck up, Nott. No one gives a fuck about what you’ve read in that rubbish,” Weasley mutters.

“Yeah, they reported I’d broken up with Ginny. _The Quibbler_ is a much better source for information on the latest topics,” Luna says, her silvery eyes dancing as she looks up at Theo.

“I guess with what I’ve heard, you’d be more interested in saving strangers than spending time with your loved ones…being the _Saviour_ and all,” Theo says snidely.

“Ah, before I forget, I have a bit of a gift for everyone,” Neville announces croakily, gaining everyone’s attention. Draco releases a breath, grateful for the distraction as he’s sure Potter was a hair’s breadth from throttling Theo. He really does admire Harry for putting up with his friends and ex.

“Yeah? What is it, Nev?” Girl Weasley asks, to which Hannah giggles. Hannah’s blue eyes are overly bright.

“Neville’s, um, _experimenting_ with Muggle plants,” she supplies.

“Oh!” Hermione says, interests clear in her voice as she tilts her head back to peer at Neville. “Sounds brilliant, Neville. What plants have you been manipulating?”

“Ah…” Neville starts. Draco watches as Neville gently nudges Hannah in the side to quiet her giggling. “It’s cannabis.”

At Hermione’s dropped jaw and Potter’s loud snort, Draco is intrigued.

“What, pray tell, is _cannabis_?” he asks.

“It’s a drug,” Hermione says shrilly. “And it’s _very_ illegal!”

“Er, only in the Muggle world,” Potter counters, shrinking back at the deadly glare Hermione sends his way. “What? I’m an Auror. I know these things!”

“It’s still _wrong!_ ” Hermione belts, her dark eyes furious. “It’s bloody _dangerous!”_

“Relax, love…” Ron murmurs, wrapping an arm around Hermione’s waist. She huffs and crosses her arms against her chest.

“Yes. All well and truly lovely to know, but how does one ingest it?” Pansy asks superciliously, a wicked look of interest on her face.

“You smoke it,” Luna answers. Everyone turns to her in surprise. “What? I spent a lot of time in Muggle communes during my travels. Marijuana allows you to see Heliopaths.”

“What the _hell_ is a Heliopath?” Draco hears Daphne whisper to Theo.

“How does it make you _feel?_ I’ve had plenty of Muggle drugs, though, I’ve never had cannabis,” Blaise says.

Pansy rolls her eyes. “You’ve tried cock-kane,” she says, waving her hand airily. Potter bursts into laughter, doubling over.

“You mean _cocaine._ Which is _also_ illegal,” Hermione says, scandalised. “It’s worse than _marijuana._ ”

“Cock-Kane… _that_ certainly sounds like it would be illegal in several countries,” Potter says.

“ _Wanker_ ,” Pansy jeers. “You should relax, Granger, you’re going to get wrinkles from all that complaining,” Pansy adds, peering down at her red-painted nails.

“How _dare_ you—” Hermione starts angrily.

“No fighting, please—!” Daphne chimes in.

“Whatever.” Blaise interrupts, offering them a bright, even smile in his dark face, an arm darting out to wrap around Pansy’s waist to pacify whatever was going to sprout from her mouth. “It was a bloody good time. I’m willing to try your creation, Longbottom.”

“It just makes you feel really calm. I enjoy it a lot,” Luna says.

Draco sighs, exhausted by this entire exchange. “Well, since we’ve now established that Hermione will not be partaking in this little adventure, Longbottom, how about you show us this plant of yours?” he says, ignoring Hermione’s indignant huff.

“I’m breastfeeding. I wouldn’t be able to smoke even if I wanted to. I don’t, by the way.”

Neville steps forward and pulls out a cigarette case from his pocket, placing it on top of the chessboard.

“Oi, mate! We may have taken a break, but we’re still playing!” Weasley barks.

“Oh, sorry, this’ll just be a mo’,” Neville says, pulling out his wand and tapping on the case three times. It opens with the slowness of a music box, revealing a neat row of what looks like hand-rolled cigarettes to Draco. “Added the charm for extra protection,” Neville explains. “I reckon every couple gets a spliff?”

“I’m out, mate,” Ron says, to which Hermione shoots him an appreciative look. “We’ll use a Bubble-Head Charm.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Daphne asks, running a hand through her short blonde locks as she eyes the spliffs passing around the room.

“It’s absolutely safe,” Neville reassures her. “I grew it myself.”

Draco’s nervous. He’s never consumed Muggle drugs before, but he wasn’t going to admit that now that everyone was lighting their cigarette-looking drugs. Potter laughs beside him, placing the spliff in between his lips and pulling out his wand to light the tip. Draco watches carefully as Potter puffs on the end twice before inhaling deeply and holding it in. He blows out. Repeats the process. He holds out the spliff. “Don’t be afraid, you’ll love it.”

“How do you know how to do that?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “You’ve done this before?”

“A handful of times after the war with my cousin,” Potter says with a shrug. Potter holds the joint out and Draco takes it and hesitantly places it between his lips. He puffs a bit too quickly and the smoke fills his mouth and throat causing him to cough roughly. _Fuck_ , it burns. He’s coughing so hard Potter wallops him on the back.

“There, there, Draco,” Potter laughs. “ _There_ goes the rest of your night.”

“What are you on about?” he rasps out, recovering from his coughing fit. “Ugh, that bloody hurt.” He tries to hand back the spliff, but Potter gives him a crooked little twitch of his lips and shakes his head.

“One more for the road Draco, then you can pass it back.” Draco rolls his eyes and takes another puff from it, this time the smoke going down smoother as he holds it in. He exhales without coughing, the tendril of smoke long and curling before him. “Well done,” Potter says, taking the spliff from him to puff on it. “This is actually really good, Neville.”

“Thanks, Harry. It’s a strain I’ve been cultivating for a while, don’t know what to call it yet. I know the Muggles are keen on naming their cannabis.”

“Is this something you’re going to take up professionally?” Luna asks, her already silvery eyes nearly glowing as she continues to puff on the spliff.

“Oh, no. This is just a hobby.”

“An _illegal_ hobby,” Hermione interjects, the nearly translucent Bubble-Head Charm covering her nose and mouth.

“This is quite good,” Blaise mutters, a content smile on his face.

Draco abruptly stops listening, the words floating around him becoming nonsensical. He feels a hazy weight trickle over the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. His mind drifts.

He never thought in a million years he’d be on relatively friendly terms with Potter, and how weird is it they’re together, doing _this_? Dating one another? How did he get Potter to be in the same _room_ with him? “Bloody hell,” he whispers. Unexpectedly, Potter bursts into laughter – they’re great heaping hoots, his eyes crinkling and his mouth wide. The laughter oddly makes Draco feel weightless, like all his tensions have drained from him and he’s floating. He’s now laughing too because Potter sounds good and he looks fit with his face open and carefree like that. Potter’s in conversation with Girl Weasley and he’s sitting there, all cool and collected, still puffing on the spliff and talking animatedly, his almond shaped green eyes bright and merry. Potter turns to him and the noise sharpens and stills around them. “Why are you lying to me?” Potter asks, an eyebrow raised in question.

Draco flinches, now feeling uncomfortable in his dimly lit sitting room. Potter _knows. He knows!_ He feels so sick he might vomit right there in Potter’s lap. He glances around the room, his friends in various stages of talk. Pansy and Blaise are now snogging and Weasley has given up the game of chess to chat quietly with his wife. Daphne is talking to Luna and Theo…Theo is staring at him, his eyes bloodshot. “What are you talking about?” he asks fearfully, focusing once more on Potter. He trembles.

“I asked if you’d like some tea? You haven’t had another glass of wine and frankly, I’m gasping for a cuppa.”

“Oh,” he says, staring down at his hands. They do seem like they’re about to start shaking. “I can go prepare tea for everyone,” he says, standing.

“Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“No, I’m fine,” he says distractedly. He’s going crazy—he’s actually _hearing_ things. Potter smiles at him and is soon roped into a conversation with Girl Weasley again.

As he enters the kitchen, he begins to shake. He opens his fridge for a bottle of water, his mouth dry like cotton, and can barely twist the cap off, he’s shaking so bad. He sips the cold water and closes his eyes, mind racing pitifully. He’s going bloody crazy. He shakes his head, trying and failing to keep the trickle of thoughts from the night of the attack from the forefront of his mind. Fighting back memories of the attack is like an insidious splinter he’d remove only to find it painfully lodged in his skin once again. He places the bottle on the island, trying to stay grounded. He’s forgotten why he’s in the kitchen in the first place.

“Are you having a funny turn?”

Draco’s eyes snap open. He clucks his tongue in annoyance, his gaze falling away from Theo as he answers. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re pale as a ghost and you look like you’re about to faint. It’s this Muggle shite Longbottom’s got us smoking,” Theo says, shrugging his shoulders. “Or maybe you’re finally sickened by Potter?” he adds hopefully. “You deserve love, Draco, and I just can’t see Potter giving that to you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Draco snaps at Theo, though his voice shakes as he says it. “And don’t talk about things you don’t understand, it’s unbecoming.”

“I just want you to know that not only am I a good friend to you, I _know_ you, Draco. It was us, all that time ago,” Theo says, stepping a bit closer to him. “We were each other’s first loves.”

“I never loved you, Theo,” he says bluntly. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, his stomach churning. “This is getting out of hand, it’s seriously starting to negatively impact our friendship.” Theo stands in front of him. “What about Daphne, do you think she feels good watching her fiancé fling himself at another man?”

“A betrothal between our families, nothing more. Can’t you see we’d be good for each other?” Theo now grabs him by the upper arms, pulling him flush against his body.

“Let me the fuck go,” Draco snarls, trying to yank himself from Theo’s grasp.

“I just want you to _listen_ ,” Theo says, shaking him slightly. “You’re being a shit friend by blowing me off –”

“I said _let go!”_ Draco shouts, panic colouring his voice. He feels as if his throat and nose are closing and he can’t speak or breathe. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, Theo means him no harm, they’ve been in this sort of position before many times and Draco’s always pushed him away with a firm ‘bugger off.’ But right now, in his haze and with fear lodged in his chest, he can’t find the strength to get away from the other man and he’s painfully reminded of that night.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Nott?”

Theo is pulled back and thrown against Draco’s fridge. Potter, looking ready to commit murder, stands between them. At his wit’s end, Draco sinks onto the floor, another gross reminder of that night with Pansy, his hands covering his face.

“We were just talking –”

“Get the fuck out. Get the fuck out of this _flat!_ ” Potter shouts.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Theo says, his eyes wide and child-like as he takes another step towards Draco’s trembling form.

“I said get the fuck out, Nott!” Potter hisses, pushing Theo away from Draco. Theo purses his lips, eyes narrowing as he glares at Potter, but he says nothing as he turns to leave the kitchen.

“Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” he echoes. He knows the question was meant to be a harmless enquiry into his well-being. It’s meant to be said in a soothing way, but the question burns Draco like Firewhisky burns the inside of his throat. “I don’t know,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes before he releases a sob.

“Tell me what to do,” Potter pleads, crouching down to wrap his arms around him, but Draco jerks back and shakes his head. Potter looks at him helplessly. “Draco. Tell me why you’re crying.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Draco lies, hot tears of frustration rolling down his cheeks. “I don’t know, I just feel so stupid. I’m so _stupid_ , Potter.”

Potter shushes him, placing a tentative hand on his head, stroking the strands back from his tear-stained face. “You’re _not_ stupid, Draco, Merlin, who hurt you like this? Was it Nott? What did that bastard do?”

“No. He did nothing,” he sniffles. “It’s me...it's _me_. It’s all my fault.”

“Draco, you’re not making sense…what’s your fault?”

“All of it. Everything that’s going on. I’m fucking damaged, Potter. I’m disgusting.”

“You are _not_ disgusting, Draco, and you’re not damaged, for fuck’s sake. You’re the most amazing, most beautiful person I’ve ever known. I’m so lucky to call you my boyfriend," Potter says in a quiet, soothing tone. "You’ve grown so much since the war, Draco. I don’t want you to continue living in the past. You’ll be okay. Panic attacks happen.” Potter opens his arms and Draco leans into his chest, his fingers grasping the front of his shirt as he calms down. He feels weak. He should tell Potter right now what happened to him, but everything in his head is a jumble and his heart is beating too fast.

As the tears slowly stop, Draco’s hazy feelings of panic and fear slip away and are replaced with embarrassment and frustration. “Merlin, I feel like a right tit for crying,” he says, pulling away from Potter slightly to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper.  

“It’s fine, Draco, don’t ever apologise for crying. I don’t think you should have smoked that spliff.” Potter’s now rubbing soothing circles into Draco’s shoulder blade. “I’m going to tell everyone to head out, yeah?”

“No, wait,” Draco says. “Hold me for a bit, please?” he asks, resting his head against Potter’s shoulder.

After a few minutes of Potter holding him, his heartbeat slows down and his head clears a little.

“Okay, I’m ready to go back to the sitting room.”

“Draco, are you sure? We can just tell everyone to head home, you shouldn’t overdo it.”

“No, Potter,” he stands, stretching his legs and reaching for his water bottle. “I’m okay.”

It’s one little slip up.

He’s not certain if it’ll be wise to tell Potter anything about his attack on a night when they’re surrounded by their friends.

 

Draco’s certain of one thing, though: he’s quickly losing the plot.

________________

Potter saunters into Draco’s small potions lab dressed in jeans and a t-shirt too-tight across his broad shoulders, a crooked smile on his tanned, sweaty face. It sends a small thrill up Draco’s spine because it’s been a while since he’s seen such a playful look on Potter’s face. With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Draco returns the smile, also noticing Potter’s awful shaggy, snarled hair is pulled into a haphazard knot at the back of his head. Potter’s hair is a crime against humanity.

“Ugh, what do you want?” he drawls, his annoyance half-hearted. He measures out 3 millilitres of ethanol in a sleek beaker. He vaguely notices Potter moseying around his ingredients shelf, as if trying to pretend he’s not bothering him. He’s been commissioned to work on a new batch of Veritaserum for the Ministry that requires the creation of over 200 vials. When asked why they need so _much,_ Robards had told him it was a matter of national security – whatever the fuck that means. Before Draco can complain about being distracted, Potter places a hand on either side of Draco’s skinny hips, his mouth coming close to the shell of Draco’s ear. “I’m getting hard just watching you measure out the liquid,” Potter huskily whispers. “I want nothing more than to fuck you right here, right now. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Bet you like the sound of that, yeah?” Potter presses his hardening cock against Draco’s backside and he nearly drops the beaker in his hands. He takes a few calming breaths, the anxiety prickling his skin ebbing away as he remembers he’s at _home._ This is _Potter_. He’s _fine._ He sits the beaker down and turns in Potter’s embrace. Now he can see Potter’s earnest face, his darkened bottle green eyes and messy black hair, Draco feels better. And in all honesty, he’s starved for Potter’s touch and he knows Potter feels the same way, too.

He had tried touching his cock a couple weeks ago on a night Potter stayed at Grimmauld. The act of touching his flaccid dick had sent him into a panic, and this had left him feeling sorry for himself. He had realised he is an outsider to this body, now merely just a visitor residing in a place that’s foul and foreign.  

But now, as he loses himself in the feel of the other man pressed flush against him with the cock he loves so much digging into his hip, a wash of relief overcomes him as he feels his own swelling. Potter lifts a hand to the back of his head and with a slight tug removes the hair tie holding his hair back, fingers running through the long blond strands. Draco shivers and he tries not to think about the last time someone had his fingers in his hair. Draco tucks his nose into the crook of Potter’s neck and focuses on his scent, grounding him to the present. Potter smells like the late Casablanca lilies he personally planted in Draco’s little greenhouse— the petals are probably opening tonight— mingled with the smell of freshly turned dirt from gardening, a sharp underpinning of sweat, French press coffee, and the Weasley matriarch’s strawberry jam Potter sometimes helps her make. The combination is heavenly.

He lifts his head and Potter starts to kiss his neck and it all feels like coming home as Draco buries his fingers in that mop of tangled black hair, a moan escaping him. He tries to press further into Potter, as if they can somehow mould into one being. Potter’s deft and familiar hands caresses the sides of his chest before he wraps his arms around his waist. Their lips meet and it’s frantic and sends a pleasurable, sharp burn down his spine. _Merlin_ , he whines in his head, he’s missed this, missed the way the other man makes him feel like he’s floating and drowning at the same time. Potter’s hands are trailing down to grasp his arse, one cheek in each hand and with a squeeze, has Draco whimpering. “ _Fu-ck,_  I’ve _missed_ you. So perfect,” Potter says against his mouth. They both need this. Draco pulls away then, a smile crossing his face at Potter’s impatient groan. He only pulls away enough so he can grab his wand to throw a Stasis Charm on his cauldron. When he places his wand back on the worktable, Potter grabs him roughly by his upper arms to walk him backwards into the space between the worktable and enormous bookshelf. As soon as his back hits the wall with a thud, Potter’s lips are against his once more, Draco’s mouth opening, their eager tongues caressing one another as the kiss deepens. He wrestles against Potter’s grasp so he can wrap his arms around the twat, but Potter won’t release his upper arms. He gives him a little shake when he tries to escape. He stops resisting as a surge of lust washes over him. The intensity of it could crack through the smog in the London sky.  

“Fuck me,” he says against Potter’s lips.

“Yeah?” Potter asks, his eyebrows rising in surprise. They haven’t had sex in weeks. He swallows and nods.

“Yes. _Fuck me now, please_ ,” he begs, rubbing his growing erection against Potter’s.

“Yeah, okay. Good. Really good,” Potter whispers between kisses. Potter spins him around and presses him into the wall, his hands running down the flanks of Draco’s body before burying his face into the crook of Draco’s neck. He rests his forehead against the cold, smooth surface of the cellar wall before using a hand to brace himself. He focuses on how good Potter’s hands feel as they move further down to massage his clothed arse. He bites his lips as Potter’s hand comes forward to undo his belt, unbutton his flies to push down at once both pants and trousers. He licks his lips and moans when Potter curls a warm hand right under the swollen head of his now triumphantly hard cock, adding just the right amount of pressure before tugging his foreskin down over the head. He throws his head back against Potter’s shoulder with a groan as he sets a sweet, unhurried pace. He twists his body just enough to grab Potter’s hair with a hand to pull him in for a brief messy kiss, Potter’s hand still tugging at his leaking cock. It feels so good, his toes curl in his steel-toed boots and he mewls. With his free hand, Potter places it on his arse. Draco stills against him then, the haze clearing a bit from his head.

“Protection,” he blurts ungracefully, remembering what the Trainee Healer told him. He doesn’t want to put Potter at risk of contracting anything if he’s been exposed.

“Mm?” Potter hums, now kneading his arse. Draco squirms in both pleasure and annoyance.

“Cast a Protection Charm,” he pants, letting his head fall forward once more to rest against the wall. Potter stills both hands, much to Draco’s chagrin. He gives a needy whine at the loss of Potter fisting his cock.

“We haven’t used one before,” Potter says slowly. “I mean, at least not since…why… _why_ would we need one now?”

“I…I just want to be safe about it, Potter.” Even to his own ears, the excuse sounds utterly ridiculous…and suspicious. Why would they suddenly do something they haven’t after a year of monogamy. They had also both been checked out by Healers when they agreed to be together, not that they were fucking anyone else the year before they became official. This whole thing has gone pear-shaped before it’s started. He closes his eyes in humiliation, his erection quickly flagging. When Potter doesn’t move, Draco grows cross. “Are you going to stand there asking a million questions or are you going to _fuck me?_ ” Draco hisses. With Potter pressed against him like this, Draco’s feeling overheated and short of breath. It’s taking every bit of his control to keep the threat of unpleasant, brutalising thoughts from dragging him to a place he now only visits in his dreams. He pushes on.

It’s so quiet, when Potter says the incantation, Draco hardly hears him. In addition to the Protection Charm, he mutters a Preparation Charm Draco’s never particularly enjoyed that settles over the whorl of his arsehole with a tingly sensation, now slick with lube. They only use this kind of charm when they’re in a hurry. But those days were long gone – days when they would fight and fuck and part ways afterwards, so bent on pretending what they were doing together meant nothing more than sex. Nowadays, they take their time opening one another up, exploring every inch of their bodies with eager hands and even eager mouths. He can hear Potter doing away at his own flies, his pants and trousers falling to his feet with a muffled sound. Draco feels uneasy and jumpy. He can feel Potter’s cock against his bare arse, but he doesn’t push forward, just teasingly rubs a finger against his now slick entrance before slowly slipping it into the wet heat, no doubt to check he’s sufficiently ready.

This causes a rush of pain so unbearable to course through Draco, he cries out. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears like a muffled drum as the room shakes and shifts around him as Potter continues to breach him with his fingers. Draco is drowning under the crashing waves of memories as he’s plunged back in the alley. His shattered cheekbone scrapes against the uneven surface of the filthy wall, an unfamiliar weight he knows he will now always be familiar with for the rest of his life is at his back, crushing him, and rendering him useless. He can taste the sharp copper tang of blood in his mouth. His vision darkens around the edges.

“Stop!” he says, voice high and frightened. “Stop! Stop! Get off me!”

With a startled gasp, Potter releases him at once, stumbling back so quickly he nearly trips over his pants and trousers. Now that he can move, Draco sprints away from Potter like a rabbit running from its prey, nearly colliding into the shelf of potion ingredients within the small space. He’s breathing heavily through his nostrils as he huddles in the corner. His vision starts to right itself, the room stops spinning, and he realises he’s still in his lab. He slowly faces Potter, whose jaw is slack. He watches as Potter closes his mouth and swallows.

“Fucking hell, Draco, are you alright?”  Potter asks, eyes wide, his arms raised as if warding off a manic beast, his hard, flushed cock jutting out from his body. Draco’s cheeks heat with a burning sense of shame that quickly turns to rage.

“Do I look bloody all right?” he cries shrilly, his hands coming up to shove Potter roughly in the chest. Potter makes a _ooof!_ sound as he stumbles backwards, but Draco doesn’t stop, he keeps shoving Potter until he’s no longer cornered between his shelf and worktable. “When someone tells you to back the fuck off, back off!” Draco shouts, a shaky hand coming up to smooth his long locks back from his face. He can feel his eyes burning as he pulls up his pants and trousers, fingers fumbling over the buttons. Potter continues to gape at him. Draco can see the gears turning in his head and needing to do _anything_ but stare at the confusion in Potters eyes. He sidles up to his cauldron to stare down into the clear liquid, willing himself not to cry.

 _Fuck—no crying_ , he thinks fiercely, gripping the edge of his worktable. _Don’t you dare fucking cry, never again, come on..._ “I don’t want to fuck anymore. Sorry,” he says, each word dropping like stone from his mouth.

He can hear Potter pulling his trousers and pants up to tuck himself away. “Okay…we don’t have to. I’m sorry, am I—did I— _hurt_ you?” Potter asks, tone worried and gentle. Draco shakes his head once. “So, what _was_ that, Draco?” Potter starts. “…Merlin, can you look at me? Why are you being so hostile –?”

Draco sniffs, crossing his arms against his chest to tuck his hands under his pits to hide the trembling. “Because I don’t want to fuck you anymore that makes me hostile?”  

“You bloody _pushed_ me.”

“You sound like a child,” Draco says coldly, even as he recoils on the inside. “And you’re acting like one, Potter. Just leave _.”_

“First you’re all hot and bothered, then you ask me do a fucking _Protection Charm of all things,_ and now—”

Draco’s suddenly, irrevocably mad. “—I’m just not feeling it anymore!” he shouts, his shoulders tensing as his hands ball into fists. He feels like something is about to pop inside his head, he’s wound so tightly. He wants Potter to _leave_. “Go wank yourself off in the fucking loo or something, I’ve work to do!” When Potter doesn’t move, Draco spins on his heel and shouts— “Just fuck off, Potter!” He lifts a balled fist, ready to swing it at Potter. He wonders if he looks as wild as he feels – if his grey eyes are wide and fiery, if his cheeks are flushed and if his hair is mussed. He’s certain of it. The silence between them becomes taut and dangerous. Potter’s handsome face is made ugly as anger mars his features, but his eyes are so full of hurt staring back at him, Draco wants to fucking disappear. Potter steps away from him slowly and continues to step back until he reaches the entrance of the lab. With a shake of his head, he turns to exit, slamming the door behind him. After a few moments, Draco can feel his wards shift, alerting him the Floo has been activated.

He grabs his wand and whips it in the air, casting the strongest Silencing Charm he can muster as he lets out an anguished scream, hands coming up to grip his hair.

He’s fucked up. He’s _so fucked up._

And _fucked._ He’s already crying, already missing Potter, already regretting _everything_ that’s come out of his mouth. He regrets going out that Friday, regrets not paying attention, regrets allowing his carefully constructed life to fall apart. He’s trembling so hard he can see his fucking _hair_ quiver in his peripheral vision. Merlin. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him anymore. Similar to how he felt smoking Neville’s plants last weekend, he feels like something is cracking inside him, opening wide and devouring every bit of energy he has in his body. He feels filthy and used up. He feels crazy.   

Picking up his wand he removes the Stasis Charm, measures out 3 millilitres of ethanol, and throws it into the cauldron.

He realises his mistake when a curl of black smoke pours from the mouth of the cauldron. He quickly throws up a _Protego_ and Vanishes both cauldron and vapours before he’s poisoned by the noxious fumes. The rage he feels growing in him is too much. There’s simply no way he can spend another moment in this potions lab or in this flat, full stop. For once in the last few weeks, he needs to get out of his home, to vent. And he knows just the place he can go to lick his wounds.

\-------

Pansy claims her Victorian townhouse is something out of the _Prophet’s_ Homes & Gardens section. Her blood-red Italian leather corner sofa, armchairs, mahogany coffee table, silver fixtures, and garish crystal chandelier read a bit overmuch in Draco’s opinion, but she’s bragged more than once how the editor of the section wants to do a feature on her home. He honestly believes the editor just wants to shag her, but he’s learned early on to keep those beliefs to himself, lest she tries to hex him with boils. It’s a shame she has such an antagonistic acquaintanceship with Hermione— together, they’d be a force to reckon with. He hasn’t seen her since the night they all smoked cannabis. He’s ignored her recent requests for lunch, owling her short missives with apologies over his busy schedule. But right now, regardless of his short notice, Pansy leaves her Floo open for him. He’s flipping through one of her magazines from her bookshelf when he hears her clear her throat.

“How _fantastic_ , you remembered my Floo address,” Pansy purrs, leaning against the doorframe of her sitting room. She’s wearing a billowy, pleated black maxi dress that elongates her short stature. “Why has it been so hard for you to send an owl back longer than two sentences?”

“Sod off…” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair, sitting the magazine down. He hasn’t tied it back up since Potter removed his ribbon.

When she gets a proper look at him, she becomes pale, a look of concern crossing her face. “You look like utter shite,” she says in surprise. His knows there’s probably bags under red-rimmed eyes and an ugly flush to his skin. He doesn’t care.

“Nice of you,” he retorts with a scowl. When she doesn’t move away from the door, he flops ungracefully onto her couch, kicking his feet up onto her coffee table, knowing this will drive her up the wall with a rant about uncouth behaviour and the sanctity of her perfect furniture. When she refrains, Draco growls. “Get me a bloody drink or _something_ , Pansy. Just don’t stand there ogling me,” he says with an oily sneer he’s sure Snape is applauding from the depths of hell.  

Pansy hesitates before moving away from the doorframe, her short hair pulled back from her face with large, jewel tipped pins. He wonders if she was preparing for a Saturday night out. She makes her way to the small bar cabinet situated in the corner of the room. Her movements are jerky as she pulls down two tumblers and a decanter of amber liquid, pouring two fingers into each crystal glass. In a flash of irritation at her slowness, Draco pulls out his wand and Summons a glass as well as the decanter, ignoring Pansy’s yelp. He snatches the glass out of the air and guides the decanter to land with a _clink_ on the coffee table before him.

“Impatient, are we?” Pansy asks, her voice dripping with apprehension. She lifts her own glass to her cherry red lips for a sip before sitting it down. With a quirked eyebrow, he downs his own drink in one swallow. The Scotch burns an uncomfortable trail down his throat, chased by a dry gag, and warms his entire body. He slides his feet from the table to the floor and makes to pour another helping, his face impassive as he purposely disregards  Pansy’s grimace. “Is there something on your mind, Draco darling?”

He takes another swig from his newly replenished glass and with a dulled expression watches as Pansy carefully makes her way to the sofa as if she’s approaching a wild animal. He is a wild animal, he thinks, feral with seething resentment, self-hatred, and fear that’s kept him caged for the last several weeks. He almost wants to lash out at her now as he feels himself spiralling, and nearly does, if not for the way she sits on the edge of the sofa – straight-backed and graceful, hands pinning her dress under her knees as her ankles cross—painfully reminding him of his mother. He wishes she were here to offer him comfort in her jasmine and rose-scented embrace.

“I fought with Potter,” he says after a moment. His ire slowly bleeds from him as he drains his glass and refills it.

“Slow down. That’s my best scotch. It’s been matured in three different casks over the length of 42 years.” Draco makes a show of taking a sip, lips turning up at the irritated look on Pansy’s face.

“I’ve had better,” he says, downing the amber liquid.   

“Come on now. Talk to me.” Pansy’s composure is cool and calm and for a moment, he hates her for it. “Did you fight with Potter because you’ve forgiven Theo?”

“No,” he says petulantly.

“So...what’re you in a twist about?” Her face creases with worry.

“I’m starting to realise Potter’s a nymphomaniac who can’t respect my need for space,” he says, rolling his eyes. He almost wants to laugh as he remembers he used to be unable to keep his hands away from Potter. He’d always need to touch him. A hand on his thigh or a foot against his calf or up against his crotch under _any_ dinner table, shoulders pressed against each other on the sofa, hands clasped when strolling, a palm caressing a cheek when in bed together. The weight of Potter’s thick, heavy prick in his hands. The minute he’d see a flash of black hair stepping out of his Floo, his hands would be everywhere and his lips would be on Potter’s, so soft, warm and sweet like treacle. He hasn’t felt the need lately, and thinking about it makes him feel an incredible loss. He jerks when he feels a hand on his knee. Eyelids now heavy with drink, his gaze follows the small hand up to Pansy’s worried hazel eyes. She leans forward.

“Why don’t you just tell him?”

Draco tilts his head back, laughter spurring from the pit of his belly. “You’re bloody crazy…you don’t _know_ how Potter is, Pans.”

“He would understand,” she says mutinously.

He turns to give her a nasty, mean little smile. “I daresay Pansy, I don’t know what’s making you so stupid as of late, but it’s certainly working wonders for you,” he says coldly.

If she’s at all rattled by his insult, she doesn’t show it, years of being best friends giving her a tough skin, but she does remove her hand from his knee. She lifts her chin and stares down her nose at him, eyes narrowing. “I’m serious. What are you afraid of, Draco? That he’ll leave you? Potter is an Auror. He’s had training in these kinds of things.”

“And how would you know this?”

“I shagged Goldstein on and off for a year, darling. He’s an Auror. They learn how to deal with everything, from taking down Dark baddies to, well, sex crimes.”

He groans, sinking further into the couch. “I don’t like where this conversation is going.” He had expected Pansy to soothe his ire while he licked his wounds, not pour salt onto them.

“Well tough shite, you’re on _my_ couch drinking _my_ Scotch, I think a bit of frank discussion is warranted in exchange. I know why you’ve come to me.”

He snorts and moves to pour another glass. “A seer, now? Tell me, O Great, All-Seeing and Knowing Pansy, why am I here?”

“You need someone to tell you the truth, darling, I’m that someone. We’ve been best friends since nappies, there’s not a single thing you can keep from me,” she says smugly before her tone shifts to one of gravity. “You’ve survived a horrible assault. You need to talk to someone about it. Pretending like it didn’t happen is taking a toll on you.”

With all he’s accomplished in the last five years – this little life of peace he’s carved out, with a career, a home, and a man he surely doesn’t deserve – it isn’t _fair_ that all of this was slipping away from him. “It’s just a rough patch.”

Pansy starts, staring down at her folded hands in her lap. “I’d _really_ like to see things from your point of view Draco, but I can’t seem to get my head that far up my arse.”

“ _There’s_ the bitch I admire,” he says, resting his ankle on his knee and sipping from his glass.

“So what are you doing? Why are you leading him on? I might not be a fan of Potter’s, and believe me, I’d be the _last_ person advocating for him, but if you aren’t serious about him…”

“I’m not leading him on!” he lashes out. “I fucking care about the prat! I just don’t…” he trails off, running a hand through his hair, now regretting the last sip of Scotch as his head swims. He sits his glass down.

“You don’t, what?” she asks. He groans.

“I don’t want to ruin things between us!” Draco shouts. Pansy winces back, a hand flying to her throat in surprise.

“I don’t understand. How would it ruin things?” Pansy asks, stricken.

He huffs in frustration, not sure how to word the thoughts that plague him constantly. “How am I supposed to tell Potter about any of this when I don’t even understand what’s happening to me?”

“That man is seven ways from hell in love with you, Draco, you can’t be this daft. Potter will support you through your pain. You both can figure it out together.”

“We will break up, Pansy. I refuse to be treated like a victim, and that’ll happen if I tell Potter,” he shakes his head. “I can’t be expected to deal with that.”

“You sound mad. Do you truly believe you can’t put a little trust in him? You two have been dating for two years –”

“—one year. It’s been _one_ year—”

“—absolutely mad. I can’t believe you think Potter will treat you differently if you tell him the truth. As much as it kills me to admit it, Potter is a perfect, bloody _gleaming_ paragon of virtue. I can’t see things ending badly if you tell him.”

“Notions on perfection are subjective,” he says flippantly with a snort.

“Stop it. You’re too afraid to face what’s happened to you.” Pansy says firmly. “Stop making excuses for taking control of your life. I can’t always be there to guide you.”

“Then you can go back to your terribly pathetic, myopic life and leave me the bloody hell alone about mine!” he snarls, standing up to move away from her. Pansy grasps his hand, pulling him back towards her.

“Do you not have any shame? Are you not sick with it for putting on a show every time you’re around him?”

“Shame isn’t a strong enough emotion to stop me from doing what I want.”

“Draco, _please_. This irrational anger you’re feeling? The confusion and pain? It will consume you if you continue to ignore it.”

“ _Irrational?”_ he hisses in disbelief, pulling away from her.

“You don’t have to feel this way.”

“And you know this how? Because you’ve been raped? Because you know what it feels like to have your very fucking soul ripped from you? How it feels to hate yourself and spurn the only man that cares about you? Do you know what it feels like to live in a constant dream? Like this isn’t your life, your body? Enlighten me, Pansy!” he shouts, startled by his own honesty. “Fucking enlighten me!” Pansy shrinks back into the seat of her sofa, turning her face away from him as if she’s been slapped.

“I-I just want you to go back to your old s-self,” she stutters, her chin wobbling. “To get better. I’m sorry if I’m saying all the wrong things, Draco. I just want you to get _better_ ,” she repeats, her eyes welling up with tears. “I-I want you to be h-happy again." Pansy takes a deep breath as she swipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I feel like you’re heading towards this dark place and it scares me. If being with Potter is preventing you from healing, then let him go, Draco. Otherwise, you’re hurting yourself by keeping this a secret from him.” He looks away from Pansy and the vicious fury thundering through his veins slowly ebbs away. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug.

“I’m too selfish.” She doesn’t ask to which point. He wouldn’t even know how to answer properly.

“I love you too, you know.” He looks at her. Tears are once again rolling down her cheeks and her shoulders are slumped forward, her hands wringing in her lap as she stares forlornly up at him. He’s never seen her this devastated. 

“I know you do.” He clears his throat and tries desperately not to sound too affected by Pansy’s blatant display of emotion. The conversation has worn him out and he needs to be alone right now. “I believe I’ve overstayed my visit, Pansy. Thank you for your hospitality,” he says with a carefully controlled look of polite indifference. He makes his way towards the Floo, feeling worse than he did before arriving to come see her. Pansy gracefully stands and follows him.

“Of course,” she starts, her face closing up as he pinches some powder from the small urn on her mantel. They’ve both learned from an early age manners and etiquette will always take precedent in any situation. He flings it into the flames, calling out for his Kensington flat. “You know what you need to do,” he hears before he’s whisked away.

___________________

_Panicked, Draco instinctively reaches up to peel away the hand  covering his mouth. In response, he’s shoved against the brick wall deep in the alley as rough calloused hands now scramble to come around his neck to squeeze. An unremarkable-looking older man about his height with dark hair stares back at him in the poorly lit space that stinks of rotten eggs, shadows playing across his pale and unfamiliar face. Despite being startled and bereft of air from being flung and choked against a wall in his inebriated state, he quickly regains his footing and attacks the man, his short nails digging into the back of the stranger’s hands. When that fails, he reaches out to press his thumbs into the man’s eyes, but the stranger squeezes tighter around his neck, shaking him while doing so. “Get the fuck off me!” he wheezes, but the man says nothing as they scuffle. Draco goes for his wand holstered up his sleeve when the Muggle pulls away from his neck only to grab his right wrist and twist it behind his back. Pain shoots up to his shoulder and Draco is thrown face-first into the brick wall with such a force that when his nose collides against the wall, it breaks, the bone crack echoing loud in his ears. He cries out in agony, blood pouring from his nose in rivulets. He tries to buck against the stranger and chokes down a wave of icy fear as his assailant presses the tip of a knife to his throat. “Don’t fucking move,” the stranger growls, subduing Draco of any further movement by pressing him into the wall with his full body weight. His mind races and he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. He screams when he feels the stranger shoving a hand down the front of his jeans to fondle his soft cock and balls. His heart pounds against his ribcage, his mind doesn’t want to register what this is, can’t form the words to follow the actions of this stranger and his intentions towards him._

_“P-p-please, let me go. I’ll-I’ll give you my-my wallet, anything, p-please! Please don’t do this!” he begs through his wheezing, tears mingling with blood and snot streaming down his face. His lungs struggle for air against the stifling weight of the stranger. The knife is pressed harder into his neck. He can feel the slide of blood on his skin from the puncture. He tries to reach his wand once again but the pressure of the stranger at his back, his arm pulled tight between them, restricts his movement. “Please!” Draco screams before bucking back against him once more._

When Draco awakens this time, he’s nauseous and so sweaty his white t-shirt sticks to his skin. He realises with an all-consuming terror he’s hard. With a choking swallow, he pulls back the thin summer duvet he’s pulled out recently and cringes at the heavy weight of his swollen cock trapped against his thigh and the bunched material of his joggers, a wet spot on the thin, grey cotton. He shoots out of his bed and into his ensuite, not even stripping off his clothes as he turns his shower on, setting it on its coldest function and stepping under the head. He feels so utterly disgusted as his erection flags, he dry heaves, dribbles of spit clinging to his lips as he retches, nothing coming up, his stomach painfully empty. It costs Draco everything he has, but he hauls himself out of the shower when his erection is gone, the shivers become uncontrollable, and the ghostly pallor of his skin becomes tinted with blue. 

Once redressed in dry clothes, he doesn’t call for Potter like before or consider reaching out to Pansy, the realisation they’re both cross with him causing him more heartache. He turns the wireless on low and slides back into bed, checking that his wand is still under his pillow. He curls into himself, knees tucked under his chin and arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He’s ready for another sleepless night.

____________________

Draco takes a leave of absence from work and because he’s on a five-year contract with both institutions, he gets his solicitor to finagle him out of certain stipulations concerning production and dictate his terms for returning. It’s the hardest decision he’s ever made because he _loves_ his job. Also, the solicitor charges him a small fortune. He can’t shake the depression that’s settled over him, and it’s causing him to make dangerous mistakes while brewing. More than once this week, he’s blown up his cauldron due to his inattention. No matter how much he hates himself, he _does not_ want to die, especially from inhaling noxious particles from an erroneously brewed potion. St Mungo’s and the DMLE were _not_ pleased he was leaving. He spent many hellish nights awake at night trying to outrun the nightmares that seem resolved to replay every single hellish moment of the attack to his body. While awake, he worries he’s destroying his future by allowing this grief to overwhelm him, but a tiny voice in the back of his head whispers: _Don’t go back out there. It’s not safe._

Draco hardly leaves his bed for a week. He can’t stop thinking about the attack. It plays constantly in his head. He thinks about it so much even blasting the wireless does little to drown out the sound of him pleading and screaming from that night. The nightmares make sleep no escape. He forces Pansy to owl him Dreamless Draught from as many apothecaries she can legally buy from. She even asks Blaise to purchase some, making him believe they’re for her. Draco Vanishes the vials when he’s consumed them—out of sight, out of mind. He promises himself he just needs to get through this first week without nightmares, he just needs the break and not an addiction. He _Scourgifies_ himself clean, not having the energy to stand under the showerhead to wash himself properly.

Potter is the one to cave first since their row, reaching out to Draco with an owl. He thinks maybe Pansy has tipped Potter off about his peculiar behaviour. He tells Potter about the leave, claims it’s a sabbatical, and he’s too sick with a cold to do much but stay home right now. Potter, trusting as he is, immediately comes to his aid, and this creates an unspoken truce between them. They don’t talk about the nature of their last row. Potter has not only been walking around like a shell of himself, but he’s been trying so hard to…do everything within his understanding and power to give Draco space. Draco feels fucking awful. Rage or apathy he’d accept from Potter. Not this gradual tolerance and careful walking on eggshells behaviour. Potter doesn’t push him to stay over, doesn’t push him for sex, he doesn’t even push him to leave his fucking flat anymore. Instead Potter brings him chicken noodle soup or an equally hot meal that’s the Muggle equivalent to a Pepperup. He’s always at Draco’s flat by 6pm on the dot with these meals, still dressed in his Auror robes. He makes him tea, reads to him, and some nights sleeps beside him. This generally makes Draco feel like rubbish on fire because Potter doesn’t know why Draco’s like this.

It’s sad, watching Potter try desperately to nurse him back to health when he’s already deemed himself terminally ill.

____________________

“I’ve been thinking,” Potter says in Draco’s dining room as they take brunch. The table is piled high with fresh fruit, delectable crepes doused in powdered sugar, thin slices of smoked salmon on toasted mini baguettes slathered with cream cheese, and so much more, compliments of Kreacher while Draco was still asleep. His plate is piled high, but it’s all unappealing to him, so he uses his fork to push around the food as they hold a steady stream of conversation. Potter has been anxious all morning and Draco has an idea of what he’s gearing up to do. Potter’s pouring him a second helping of mimosa when he announces his little realisation.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Potter,” he drawls, taking a sip from his newly replenished glass.

“I think you should move in with me.”

“I believe we’ve had this conversation already,” he says, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

“I _really_ want you to move in.”

“How unfortunate for you,” he says with a frown. “No, Potter. I won’t move in. I value my alone time.”

“We’re together more often than not,” Potter mutters, running a hand through his mop of hair.

“We most certainly are not. I don’t need…a _protector_ …I don’t need _The Saviour_ ,” he scoffs. Draco watches as Potter’s jovial face shifts into a hard, dark expression. Potter glowers at him and Draco feels a crackle of magic surround them. His heart slams against his ribcage as the feeling washes over him and he shivers, equal parts alarm and desire flooding him. It’s a feeling he’s not unfamiliar with when Potter has emotional outbursts about being called the Saviour or The Boy Who Lived. Draco usually embraces the fit with a bout of lust, but right now, he approaches it with trepidation. He doesn’t understand the mix of emotions surging through him. Draco used to like playing fast and loose teasing him about it, he’s never been so cagy over Potter’s reaction to it. It’s not like Potter will hurt him.

“Please. Don’t call me that,” Potter says calmly despite the magic in the air. “That’s not what this is about and you know it, Draco. I love waking up next to you in the morning, and don’t lie, you do too.” Draco slowly nods and Potter perks up. “Grimmauld Place is larger than your flat, we can set up a second study on the first floor just for you. You’ll have full access to the Black library. I was thinking maybe I’d build a bit of Wizarding space for a greenhouse in the back to grow ingredients for your potions—we can consult Neville. And you’d have the whole cellar as a potions lab, I mean the space is huge….” Potters says, ticking off his points on his fingers. “Er…we’ll of course have to install a ventilation system before you move in your lab, though, for safety...”

Draco raises a surprised eyebrow, fighting the smile that wants to tug at his lips. “My, you’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?” Perhaps he should have stopped after one glass of alcohol on an empty stomach, because Potter’s suggestion is enticing him now, and this can’t possibly end well for either of them.

“Will this really make you happy?” he asks, watching as Potter’s face lights up with a smile.

“Yeah, of course. I mean, I’m happy either way just being with you, but Draco, you must know…you’re it for me.”

“What?” he asks, his glass halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

Potter rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, you’re the one I want to be with, always. There’s no one else for me.”

Draco takes a long sip from his glass, eyes widening perceptibly behind it as he stares at Potter’s eager face. Potter and his grand proclamations – so loaded and yet never quite saying all he wants to say. He knows it’s another way for Potter to get as close as possible to saying “I love you” without actually saying it.

Draco thinks back on his last argument with Pansy with an inward, bitterly triumphant laugh. Pansy has little faith in him. He most certainly can keep things the way they are. He can still be a good boyfriend without Potter being none the wiser to that horrible night back in February. He makes up his mind then.

“If you’re so intent on keeping me around, Potter, I’ll think about it.”

__________________________

“Are you absolutely sure about this?”

Draco looks up from his spot on the floor beside Potter’s coffee table, a small box filled with pictures of him, Mother, and Father in his lap. Pansy’s pinch-faced and pale. “Yes,” he says absently, ignoring her a scowl of displeasure.

A large belch of black smoke pours out from the Floo. The puff of black smoke has them both whipping their heads towards it. A chest of Draco’s judiciously packed potions ingredients spits out from the Floo and lands with a _thump_ just arm’s-length from where Pansy’s sitting on the floor, sorting through a box of photographs. Coughing, Potter stumbles through, a much smaller chest in his arms.

“Merlin. What have you done to the Floo, Potter?” Draco asks, eyes narrowing as Potter tosses the smaller chest onto the one sitting next to Pansy. “Careful!” he hisses. Potter doubles over with a rough cough, pounding his sternum with a balled hand. Draco quickly conjures a paper cup, using _Aguamenti_ to fill it and send Potter’s way. He watches with interest how Potter’s throat works as he takes three large gulps from it.  

“Bugger. Accidentally used too much Floo powder and the flames were smoking. Caught a good swallow of some soot on my way out,” he takes another swig, smacking his lips. “Much better.”

“And you live another day. Now get back to work,” Draco teases.

“I’ll just take these to the cellar?” Potter asks cheerfully, cup still in hand and covered in soot. He wandlessly Levitates the chests.  

“Mmm,” Draco hums, turning back to his photos.

“Shouldn’t you two be, er, _moving_ stuff?”

“I’m sorry, do you hear something, Pansy?” he asks, not looking up from the photo.

“Not at all, Draco.”

“That’s what I thought,” he quips. Potter doesn’t say anything further, just chuckles as he waves a hand, the chests trailing behind him in the direction of the cellar. When he’s gone, Pansy places the album aside and comes to sit before him in an armchair, crossing both arms and legs.

“Really? Are you?”

His stomach tightens with worry. No, he’s not sure about any of this, he thinks, as he looks around the messy sitting room, boxes and trunks piled high in the centre of the room. Most of the furniture has been pushed against the wall to allow for more space. Kreacher pops in and out to Levitate trunks to their proper destination, all the while grumbling under his breath about having an unworthy second Master. In the distance, he can hear the muffled laughs of Blaise, Greg, Weasley, and Neville coming from the stairs, probably taking a break to raid Potter’s cold cabinet before travelling back through Floo to collect what’s left of his possessions at the flat. He was lucky Greg needed a new place to stay and asked to be Draco’s new tenant in his Kensington home. He couldn’t imagine putting his beloved flat back on the market, so landlord it is.

He takes a deep breath before smiling sardonically. “As sure as I’ll ever be.”

“You’re an arse,” she harrumphs. “If you badly needed a flatmate, I would have gladly invited you into my home. I think this is a mistake.”

“Bully for you.” He carefully pulls out a picture of himself as a toddler, no more than three years old. His heart clenches as his happy, child-self smiles shamelessly up at him with a wave. He sits the photo on the edge of Potter’s coffee table and gives Pansy a stony look.

“This just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do _._ He still doesn’t know, does he? _”_

Draco releases an anguished sigh, eyes rolling as he stares up at her. “Kindly fuck off,” he says, teeth gritting. “He doesn’t _have_ to know and this is _still_ the right thing to do. For Potter’s sake.” Pansy stands from her seat.

“Perhaps. But with very little regard for _your own,_ ” she says gravely, walking away from him. She gives him a short, small frown over her shoulder before disappearing down the long corridor towards the rest of their friends.

He tries hard, several hours later when it’s just Potter and him curled up together in their bed, to forget the shiver of dread that ran up his spine, fearful that Pansy’s departing words would come back to haunt him.

 

“Will you be happy here, with me?” Potter asks, his arms wrapped tight around him. Draco feels as if his heart skips a beat and for a moment he’s nonplussed. _Will_ he be? Fuck, he doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. He wants to please Potter. Pansy, the stupid bint, may have been right. He wasn’t at all thinking about his own well-being. He wonders –if he hadn’t been pulled into that alley, if he hadn’t lost control of his body, if he wasn’t slowly going insane —if this question would give him pause. He wonders what kind of growth would have naturally occurred between him and Potter. Would he be proclaiming his love for Potter by now? Would he have moved in because it was something he wanted, truly wanted, and not something he had to go along with to prove he can still function as a boyfriend? He doesn’t know the answers, but it doesn’t stop the questions from tossing around in his head. He wants to know who he would have been.

He’ll have to be happy if he doesn’t want to further upset things between them right now. Yet, he’s so tired of performing normalcy when under the surface he’s breaking apart, being pulled from all corners of his tortured mind. But he has to do it, because he can’t see himself without Potter anymore. He bites the side of his cheek before answering, a twinge of guilt sparking low in his belly. He plasters on a fond smile and nods.

_________________

 _A hand tightly fists his hair, offering relief from the pain of the knife in his neck, but the relief is short-lived as the stranger tugs his head back and slams his face into the wall, his front teeth colliding against the wall this time. Draco howls, wild and piercing, the pain exploding across his face so severe he nearly blacks out. It takes every morsel of his being to stay awake. “Shut your fucking mouth,” the stranger hisses against his ear, the threat poisonous and promising of further retribution. The knife is once again at Draco’s neck, tucked right under his jaw, and he whimpers. “I will_ kill you _if you don’t shut the fuck up.” Draco bites down on his tongue, a quiet gagging noise tugging at the back of his throat as he tries to prevent any sobs or screams from bubbling up. The knife is gone again and instead a hand moves on Draco’s crotch, loosening his belt and the buttons of his jeans. The low-slung dark coloured jeans Draco nicked from Potter’s closet and the simple, tight black boxer shorts are pushed down to his mid-thigh. When what’s about to happen sinks in, a numb shock washes over him and his whole body goes still against the wall. For a moment, every single thought in his mind flees. The odd void is a blanket of silence. It settles over him and first fills his throbbing head before it begins to pour out into every nerve ending in his body. He doesn’t register when the stranger kicks his legs further apart so his stance widens. He doesn’t quite hear the belt unbuckling and the zipper being tugged down behind him. He doesn’t feel the rough pulling, seeking, and prodding. His body tries to resist, but soon he is open and exposed. Breached. A sharp, broken scream of pain rips high from his throat, filling the alley with the horrifically wounded sound and jolting him from the numbness a bit. The only fleeting thought that strikes him, somewhere in a tiny sliver of space amongst the void in his mind, is he’s grateful the passing train that goes by on the overpass swallows the magnitude of his cry. He doesn’t want his face bashed into the wall again. Instead, his cheek rhythmically scrapes against the coarse surface of the wall as he stares at an overturned rubbish bin that’s spilling rotten produce out onto the filthy ground. He vaguely acknowledges the tears that blur his vision, turning the bin into a black blob. He vaguely acknowledges how tightly he’s clenching his free fist, the other still held behind his back as the stranger roughly ruts against him, his hot breath and sharp pants moist against the back of his neck. He vaguely registers the blade of the knife is now piercing his skin, a steady stream of blood collecting on the collar of his white button-down from the puncture. The only thing keeping him upright is this stranger’s weight against him, but he doesn’t feel it anymore. He doesn’t feel anything._

_When the stranger exhales messily against Draco’s neck, he pulls away, and Draco’s legs give out. He goes crashing to the filthy ground, landing on his side like a dropped, forgotten ragdoll. He chokes back a sob and rolls over when the stranger’s boot collides into his stomach, chest, and face. The stranger keeps kicking him, and it takes all of Draco’s strength to raise his hands in a weak attempt to block the kicks. It’s quick and vicious and soon he’s left alone in the alley, bleeding and huddled in foetal position._

Draco wakes with a sob, wet eyes blinking rapidly in the darkness. He’s gasping for air and he’s broken out in a cold sweat, his whole body drenched, clothing sticking to his thin chest. He’s practically vibrating—and with such a force he accidentally bites through his tongue, the coppery taste in his mouth slamming him back into the thick of his nightmare. The feeling is visceral, unbearable, and he lets out a guttural scream as he covers his face with his hands.

The stranger, his hands on his body, the pain, the numbing terror. All of it. He was there all over again, being violated and beaten to an inch of his life.

Potter sleepily wraps his arms around him. One hand on his chest, the other on his stomach. “Shh…I’ve got you, Draco. The war is over. No one can hurt you anymore, I’ve got you. Breathe with me.” They count to five. They hold their breaths together for five seconds before repeating the process over. Draco remembers when it used to be the other way around and Merlin, how things have changed now Potter is the one comforting him after a nightmare. When they first started sleeping together, Draco would awake in the middle of the night to a whimpering Potter. It was usually his job to wrap his arms around the other man and encourage him to relax while offering kind words to chase away the ill remnants of a nightmare. Now it’s Potter’s words that calm him, and though Potter believes the nightmare is about the war, the truth of his words remains the same – the stranger can’t _physically_ hurt Draco anymore. That doesn’t extend to his frayed state of mind.

As the residual anxiety from the dream passes, Draco stiffens in Potter’s embrace, no longer wanting to withstand the touch. Potter notices the stiffening and without a word to Draco about it quickly withdraws his arms.

____________________

 

Potter sees him, but doesn’t see him.

In the couple of weeks since Draco moved into Grimmauld, Potter sees him restless, pacing in the middle of the night, aloof and withdrawn. Sees him riddled with nightmares. Potter sees him arguing more, or curled up in bed still in pyjamas that are now becoming too large for him. He sees him avoiding his newly-built potions lab. He sees him avoiding their friends who stop by. Potter sees him quiet, conversation now difficult. He sees him moody.

But what he doesn’t see is the way Draco avoids mirrors. Potter doesn’t see the way he forces food down his throat when the gnawing in his stomach makes his knees buckle and his head swim. He doesn’t see the panic flash across Draco’s face when Potter places a hand on his shoulder or tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. Potter doesn’t see he’s become deft at lying. Doesn’t see Draco’s jaw clenching, his fists balling, his eyes glistening, all while saying he’s alright. Potter doesn’t see the haunted look in Draco’s eyes.

Potter hasn’t yet realised that Draco has cracked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to state here that Draco’s coping mechanisms are not healthy, and I hope this sentiment is further seen through his interactions with Pansy. I’m in no way endorsing Draco’s way in coping – we can see in this story how damaging it can be. I guess in a sense this is a cautionary tale without calling it one. He’s deep in his denial. He’s not addressing his flashbacks and deteriorating relationships. Drugs/alcohol is also something I’ve incorporated into this chapter because I wanted to show how dangerous that can be on someone who is running away from coping with their trauma. Draco may live in a magical world, but he’s susceptible to very real, in his case very Muggle, modes of vulnerability.


	4. Chapter Four

_Panicked, Draco instinctively reaches up to peel away the hand  covering his mouth. In response, he’s shoved against the brick wall deep in the alley as rough calloused hands now scramble to come around his neck to squeeze. An unremarkable-looking older man about his height with dark hair stares back at him in the poorly lit space that stinks of rotten eggs, shadows playing across his pale and unfamiliar face. Despite being startled and bereft of air from being flung and choked against a wall in his inebriated state, he quickly regains his footing and attacks the man, his short nails digging into the back of the stranger’s hands. When that fails, he reaches out to press his thumbs into the man’s eyes, but the stranger squeezes tighter around his neck, shaking him while doing so. “Get the fuck off me!” he wheezes, but the man says nothing as they begin to scuffle._

_Draco goes for his wand holstered up his sleeve when the Muggle pulls away from his neck. The press of his Hawthorn wand in his hand gives Draco the energy needed to push the stranger back. He whips his wand out, nonverbally flinging the Cruciatus Curse at the stranger. He smiles maniacally as the jet of red light strikes its target, causing the stranger to fly backwards, landing with a sickening thud on his back. He screams and writhes in agony in the middle of the filthy alley and Draco doesn’t lift his wand for a moment, his eyes lighting up with glee as the tortured screams of the stranger wash over him like a beautiful sonata._

“What’s going on with you?”

Draco is ripped from his daydream. He blinks several times before he realises he’s not in the alley torturing the stranger, but standing before the kitchen counter, a food container in his hands, rather than grasping the handle of his Hawthorn wand.

“What?” he asks, bemused.

“I asked what’s going on with you lately, Draco.”

Potter perches on a thick wooden chair before the kitchen table. It’s been two weeks since he moved in. Draco still sleeps a lot, rarely changes out of his pyjamas, and before Potter feeds him for the day, will nibble on plain cream crackers and sip on tea. But today Potter forces him to get out of bed and has asked Kreacher to leave out chicken salad and thickly sliced seven-seeded wholemeal bread.

He grimaces. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?” he barks, already defensive as he slams the tub of chicken salad down onto the countertop, narrowly missing the lettuce and tomatoes, fingers trembling with trepidation. This was not the conversation Draco had had in mind when Potter pestered him into getting out of bed to make lunch sandwiches for them. Bickering about whether they should replace Kreacher with another house elf, _a much younger one,_ yes, but not _this_ shite.

“You’ve been different,” Potter says grimly.

“Tosh,” he says through clenched teeth.

Potter gives a weary sigh, and Draco chances a look over at him. He looks paler than Draco’s ever seen him before. His usual golden skin is awash with a grey tint seen in those who are ill. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and the dark coarse hair lines his square jaw, adding to his ruffian look with his messy black hair, grease-stained t-shirt, and light blue jeans. He looks awful. When had he stopped _looking_ at Potter? Draco’s eyes roam over him once more, a confused frown gracing his face. Potter removes his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose before placing them back on. “At first I thought perhaps you were still cross because I asked you to move in with me the first time, but then you eventually agreed. I know you like to do things at your own pace, that’s what I both appreciate and adore about you, Draco.” Potter shakes his head. “But you’re still acting… _off_ …I thought maybe you were cheating…or had cheated…on me,” Potter whispers, pausing expectantly, but when Draco says nothing, mostly out of shock, Potter continues. “But that’s not it. Is it?”

“Are you serious, Potter?” Draco snaps, eyes widening, the flash of anger coursing through him protecting him from the devastating hurt over the suspicion.

“Come off it. If the roles were reversed you would have had your suspicions, too! There’s that whole bloody weird matter of you and Nott!” Potter shouts. When he flinches back at the raised voice, Potter visibly deflates, hand coming up to nervously run through his hair.

“Are you bloody _testing me_?” Draco hisses, each passing second of Potter’s silence filling him with numbing incredulity. He gestures to the boxes of items he still needed to unpack. “Was all this some fucking test, Potter?” he demands.

“No! That’s not the reason I wanted you to move in. Fuck. You must know that.”

Draco swallows. It would be terribly inconvenient if he started crying right now. He wraps his arms around his body. Despite the slate-blue cashmere jumper he threw on in haste this morning, he’s freezing. “All I know is that this is a gross manipulation. This,” he pauses, looking around the kitchen before drawing in a shuddering breath. “This is _fucked_.” Draco wonders if he should flee from Potter’s presence, wonders if distance will ease the flurry of thoughts viciously running through his head. He’s being pulled from too many angles all at once—not wanting to be owned by Potter, but wanting to be with him always. Not wanting to remember the attack, but constantly plagued with nightmares. Wanting to trust Potter, but realising how deep their insecurities about one another run. He doesn’t know what they’re doing anymore—twenty-two years old trying to live like functioning adults despite a war and ten years of animosity between them, both of which have left them broken and angry. How absurd to think _he_ can pretend not to be broken and angry. The more he’s talked to Pansy, the more he’s grasping how unstable he is. “This was a mistake,” he says quietly, echoing Pansy’s warning. “I never should have moved in with you.”

“Draco, _no_ …” Potter starts, moving to stand up, but Draco quickly lifts a hand in a _stop_ motion. Potter immediately sags back into his seat with a shudder. “It’s taken me a long time to say anything. I’ve been afraid of what you might say to me, that you might want to,” Potter chokes on his words, “that you might want to _leave_ me. You…you won’t talk to me like you used to, you’ve lost weight, you’re sad, _all the time_ . You won’t let me touch you. I mean, we haven’t _tried_ to have sex in ages. Not that it matters, the sex, it’s just…you’ve been so _unhappy_ , Draco. I thought things would improve if you moved in but it hasn’t. If anything, you’re _worse_. I just want you to be happy, Draco. But,” Potter pauses and says in a tiny, pleading voice, “please don’t leave me.”

He’s reminded of the night he moved in, Pansy’s warning lingering in the back of his head and Potter’s question – _“Will you be happy here, with me?”_ It makes more sense now, the question stemming from Potter’s insecurity about Draco’s intentions towards him. It’s absolutely preposterous of Potter to think Draco would move in with him just to leave him, but he can understand they’re both losing the plot. The helpless look on Potter’s face draws him up short and Draco wonders if anyone else has seen Potter like this, if Hermione or Weasley have been privy to how scared Potter can become when he faces the threat of abandonment. The thought makes him feel oddly possessive of Potter. He doesn’t want to share this side of him with anyone. He has never seen Potter this vulnerable before and it does something to his insides – it makes his insides run cold with regret for causing him to feel this way. “I know it’s _me_ . I know it is. Just please, _please_ tell me what I need to do to fix this and I will. Draco. I love you. I’m _in_ love with you. Give me a chance to make things right, _please_ ,” Potter pleads, voice broken.

Draco blanches. His hand darts out to steady himself against the kitchen counter as his knees buckle. Potter says those three words with his whole body, says it with so much strength and certainty, he practically glows as the words tumble out his mouth. _Fuck_ , he could pass out right now. Draco’s never said those words to anyone before in his life, not even to Mother, though she’s said it to him many times. Potter has never said it to him before now, but he’s certainly _shown_ Draco he loves him. His row with Pansy on the matter of trust rushes back to him at full force. just Potter saying this to him now is so wrong – this body is _broken, haunted_ with memories of that night. _Damaged goods,_ as the Muggles say. He’s quite sure he’s on his way to the Janus Thickey Ward. He’s in no place to love Potter and he won’t say it back, _can’t_ say it back. But he can’t bear to watch Potter become this helpless person because he’s been touched by Draco’s trauma. Potter doesn’t deserve to feel that way. And yes, maybe he’d been coming to terms with his feelings for Potter before, but now, well now he doesn’t know how to function, at least not enough to try to return those three words. Though his crippling anxiety sometimes pushes Potter away, he doesn’t want to let go of Potter either, as his presence is the only reason he’s held onto some modicum of sanity in the last several weeks. It’s selfish, but Draco’s never considered himself a generous or brave man.

With Potter begging like this, his desperate need to figure out what _he_ can do to change for the better in their relationship, Draco knows he’d be a fool to continue to let Potter blame himself. He only sees one way to resolve this problem: tell him the truth. Perhaps this is what Pansy meant about, well, everything— letting Potter in, trusting him, letting Potter carry him.

Potter, though unknowingly, has carried Draco through this pain since the beginning, and maybe telling him the truth now will free him from some of his anxiety. The more he toys with the idea, the more questions run through his mind – What if Potter spurns him? Accuses him of having wanted it or finds him disgusting? Breaks up with him? Draco tries to tame his thoughts before they run rampant. No. _No._ This is _Potter_ , the Idiotically Chivalrous Gryffindor, he rationalises. He opens his mouth, the words ready to rush out.

“Potter, I have to tell you something,” he starts, voice wavering. He feels a rush of anxiety wash over him as the words leave his mouth. He fidgets—a restless tapping of his left foot as he bites his lower lip. The look on his face must startle Potter, because he sits up straighter in his chair, an eyebrow lifting in question as his bright eyes travel down to Draco’s fidgeting foot. He doesn’t think he’s ever fidgeted in front of Potter before. Draco looks away from Potter’s open face, finding refuge in the parquet floor of the kitchen, eyes focused on a smudge of dust the ancient elf had missed during his last cleaning. “About two months ago, I went out for Slytherin Pub Night. It was the day you asked me to move in with you, do you remember?” he asks. Potter nods. “After leaving the pub, I was sexually assaulted,” he says, voice muted. His words are met with silence. When he looks up, Potter stares back at him, still as a stone.

“ _What?”_ Potter finally croaks, shaking his head as if to clear it, his breathing quickening to little distraught pants and eyes blinking rapidly behind his round frames. When he doesn’t say anything further, Draco’s looks at Potter for a long moment, terrified of saying _the word_ , but continues, pulse racing.

“I was r-raped, Potter.”

Potter closes his eyes, face contorting with pain as if Draco’s words are like weapons that can pierce the flesh. “I didn’t want to tell you because I was…ashamed. I had been drinking and I couldn’t fight him off, I should have been paying attention to my surroundings in a dodgy neighbourhood. I never thought, never imagined, _men_ getting raped? _Wizards_ getting raped by _Muggles?_ It never crossed my mind as a possibility, so do you see, Potter, all of this happened to me because I fucked up, I was an idiot. And, I didn’t…I don’t…want it to ruin our relationship. I’ve always been so afraid of upsetting what we have between us. I didn’t think we’d survive something like this,” he admits with a wince. Potter stares at him again, eyes now wet. “So, I lied. I lied and made you believe I’d been mugged. I did go to St Mungo’s so they could patch me up…I had some bruises, some broken bones. I filed a report with a couple of Aurors. I took the necessary potions to heal myself, which is why we needed the Protection Charm...and why I became so upset with you that day,” Draco says quietly, though, internally screaming from crushing dread. “I did what I had to do and, well. It’s, _fuck_ , it’s not something I want to think about more than I need to. But I admit, lately things have been on the right side of absolutely fucking terrible and I don’t want you walking around like a kicked baby crup thinking I want to break up with you because of it!” He’s nearly shouting by the end of his explanation. Looking at Potter right now is like looking into a mirror of his own despair.

Potter stands slowly from his seat and crosses the kitchen to where Draco’s leaning against the counter. “May I hug you?” he asks in a voice barely above a whisper, strained with unchecked emotion. Draco gives a jerky nod and Potter scoops him up into a careful embrace, his shaky hands cupping the back of his head as he cradles him. He sways slightly, a soft rhythmic kind of rocking that both lulls Draco and makes him feel an all-encompassing sadness. Potter’s fingers run through Draco’s hair. “I’m so, so sorry, Draco. I-I can’t _imagine_ what you’ve been going through, and _God,_ I’m so fucking _–”_ Potter’s breath catches, but continues to rock him. “I’m so fucking _sorry.”_ Potter pauses and rests his forehead against Draco’s, his gaze unwavering as their eyes lock. One hand holds the back of his neck and Draco briefly relishes the affectionate and familiar touch as Potter’s other hand caresses his cheek, his long neck, then back up to push his fingers through his hair.

“I couldn’t – I couldn’t stop him. I froze,” he chokes out, his vision blurring. He starts to shake.

“Draco. This was not your fault. You did nothing wrong. This happened because some _sick_ , _twisted_ piece of fucking shit out there gets off on hurting people,” Potter says, a vein throbbing in the side of his neck as his grip on Draco perceptibly tightens. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry it happened to you, you don’t deserve this. It is _not_ your fault. It will _never_ be your fault.”

“ _Potter_ ,” he cries, his hands coming up to wrap around Potter’s waist, fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt. Now with the truth lingering between them, it makes the assault this real and tangible thing that’s wedged in the middle of his chest. It’s alive and it thrashes, sharp nails and teeth, digging into his inner meaty walls with no intentions of letting go. Draco melts against him, his thin shoulders vibrating from the force of his tears as all the tension he’s carried for the last two months comes spilling out of him. He cries painfully, his chest rattling, and his breathing heavy, the ability to stumble out an apology for falling apart like so stuck in his throat. This kind of sorrow he feels today – this sorrow cuts him deep, scraping against the bone, as if making up for the many days he’s spent trying to bury his pain. He’s crying so hard he feels as if he’s one sob away from disintegrating into a fine dust to collect at Potter’s feet. But Potter is here to hold him and prevent him from completely breaking, and in a way, has always been there, even when he didn’t fully know why Draco was falling apart. Potter always holds him through his grief.

“ _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,”_ Potter repeats, and it’s starting to sound like a soothing mantra coupled with his hands running through his hair, nimble fingers brushing away the tears from his cheeks. “I’m glad you told me, Draco. I’m so sorry I didn’t notice. I didn’t know just how hurt you were. I couldn’t help you. I _failed_ you _._ ” Potter’s voice is an anguished whisper. “ _Merlin_ , please forgive me.” Draco drops his head onto Potter’s shoulder, his face screwing up with another fresh wave of tears. He wants to tell Potter there’s nothing to forgive, it’s not his fault, it’s not his job to protect him.

“I know you’re angry I waited so long to tell you,” he says instead, voice wretched and muffled against Potter’s shoulder. He feels like a complete idiot he didn’t tell Potter sooner. He’s been trying and failing to convince himself this attack was just against his body, it hasn’t changed him, despite all the signs everything in his life was falling apart. The utter relief he feels from sharing this secret with Potter is poignant. “Pansy knows—she was here the night I was discharged.”

Potter pulls back a little, his eyes are bloodshot and his own cheeks wet. Draco once again can’t meet Potter’s intense gaze. “Draco, look at me,” Potter says softly. He struggles to lift his eyes from the floor but does. “I _promise_ you I’m not angry. What you went through and are continuing to go through makes me angry _for_ you, not _at_ you, do you understand? What you want is very important to me, but please. I want you to feel safe, I want you to feel safe with _me_. I know I’ve cocked up a lot, but please, Draco. I know this is tough for you, but whenever you want to, when you’re _ready_ , I’m here, ready to listen, always. I want you to trust me.”

Trust him. It’s such a loaded request. He doesn’t trust himself, so he doesn’t know if he’s brave enough to put all of what he can’t do for himself in Potter, but he wants to try. He wants to feel safe. He wants Potter to help him feel safe again, and if that means taking a leap of faith, Draco decides he’ll do it.

“Okay,” he says firmly, and he means it. Something shifts inside him. The ball of gloom that’s been lodged in his chest for ages now feels a tiny bit smaller. He draws in a breath and releases it, strong and messy, and watches as it causes the hair across Potter’s forehead to flutter. The unspoken promise in his words must come across clearly because Potter shoots him a beautiful, if not watery, smile. Green eyes search his grey before Potter kisses his forehead, whispering how much he loves him, how sorry he is, how he’s here for him.

Like a flower rising from concrete, hope sprouts alongside the gloom in the centre of Draco’s chest.

 

______________________

 

The next morning, Draco wakes with a start when he hears a soft knock on their bedroom door. His hand quickly reaches under his pillow to grope for his wand. He relaxes when he feels the soft thrum of magic as his hand wraps around it. “Come,” he murmurs as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. Potter’s unruly head appears behind the door before he pushes it open with his elbow, a tray of food in his hands. “Hey,” Potter says quietly, a soft smile on his face. “I thought maybe you’d like some breakfast, so, er, I brought it up to you.”

Draco is pleased to see Potter is holding the tray Luna bought him as a housewarming gift from when he moved into his Kensington flat. It’s an interesting tray, as the base is a chalkboard, and Draco had been infinitely amused by it. Potter places the tray over his lap and sits on the edge of the bed. Draco grins as he stares down at it. Potter has drawn a sun with a smiling face, the words ‘ _good morning sunshine!’_ in bright pink chalk underneath it in his spidery scrawl.

“Such a sap, this one,” Draco teases softly as he sits up straighter, lips twitching into a teasing smirk. There’s a delicious, fat raspberry sweet roll doused in icing and a small bowl of yoghurt with sliced green apples decorating the top in a swirly pattern. There’s a cup of strong tea Draco bets a spoon can stand in. “This is so lovely, thank you,” he says. His stomach gives a grumble. Potter watches him as he gingerly picks up the roll. He moans when he bites into it, his eyes closing as the taste of sweet fruit and icing burst across his tongue. He hasn't consumed anything so fresh or sweet in such a long time -- everything tasting sour and bitter on his tongue for several weeks now. When he opens his eyes Potter’s cheeks are slightly flushed. Draco places the pastry back on the plate and picks up his tea.

“Are you going to kiss me now?” he asks over the rim of his cup. Potter smiles ruefully at him.

“Yeah, of course,” is all he says before he leans in to kiss Draco’s lips. It’s a chaste kiss that rivals the sweetness of the raspberry roll. Draco pulls away.

“Potter...this…this doesn’t _change_ anything, alright? I’m okay, and you need to believe me. I won’t suffer you babying me or treating me like some invalid,” he says before looking down at the tray of food in his lap. “But I won’t turn down this kind of pampering, here and there,” he says with an amused quirk of an eyebrow.  

Potter dips his finger into the bowl of yoghurt and licks it. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Potter says earnestly with a nod. Draco smirks before spooning a bit of the yoghurt and apple. “Do you…do you want to tell me what happened that night?” Potter is watching him with a patient, warm look. It suddenly reminds him of Siobhan. Draco shakes his head, an icy feeling of shock and pain running through him.

“ _No.._.no, I don’t.”

“That’s fine. I…er…I want to suggest something to you, yeah?” Potter says gravely.

“Yeah. Okay,” Draco says, placing his spoon down as his lips pressed into a tight line.  

“I think you should consider talking to someone, professionally. If you don’t want to see a Mind Healer, we can find a Muggle therapist or maybe someone who has experience with both magic and non-magic methods.”

Draco stares down at his food, no longer interested as his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“Well, yeah,” Potter says softly, placing a comforting hand on Draco’s leg under the duvet. He strokes it lightly, softly and carefully. He's touched Draco here before, so many times, but today it feels different. It feels new and Draco's heart both aches and sings for it. “I don’t think it would hurt to talk to someone about what you’re going through.”

“Why can’t I just talk to you about it when I’m ready? Trust and all.”

Potter looks away then, staring aimlessly towards the door. The light from the sun peeping through the drapes glints off his round glasses, and for a moment, he looks like the skinny young boy Draco recalls from Hogwarts instead of the strong Auror he’s become. “I’m here to talk to you about everything…anything. I want you to get the proper help you need, too.”

“I’m fine,” he says waspishly.

“ _Draco_.”

“ _No._ You know what Potter...I’m not feeling very hungry anymore. I’d actually like to get some more rest,” he says, pushing the tray away from him.

“I’m just suggesting things that will help you.”

“I don’t fucking _need_ help, Potter. Right now, what I need is _sleep_ since this conversation has put me off my meal.”

Potter’s face becomes pinched. “Those nightmares you keep having are about the attack, am I right?" At his silence, Potter's face crumbles. " _Draco_ , I really think you should consider it.”

“Fuck _off_ , Potter,” Draco says, his muscles tensing. He kicks his knee up to uproot the tray in anger and it falls over the side of their bed with a clatter, the tea spilling across their wood floors along with the yoghurt. Potter flinches, but doesn't move from his corner of the bed, hands still clasped in his lap as he watches the bowl of yoghurt roll towards to door leaving a trail of apple slices behind. He knows he’s being irrational, childish even, but he doesn’t care. Potter sighs. With a wave of his hand, the tray rights itself, the food  clears away, and the dishes fly back into Potter’s hands. He doesn’t need a therapist. He doesn’t need someone to tell him what he already knows – he’s broken not just in this body but in the head, as well. He needs Potter to drop this line of thinking immediately.

“It’s okay to take it one step at a time, you’ll get there, okay? I just want you to keep an open mind,” Potter says resolutely. It's soft and kind and Draco closes his eyes with a grimace.

“Let me sleep, Potter,” Draco says dismissively, flopping back against the pillows, burying under the duvet again. Potter doesn’t move. Draco drifts off to sleep.

 

When he awakens much later, Potter is asleep beside him, hands tucked under his head, and glasses askew on his face. Draco carefully removes Potter’s glasses to sit on the nightstand. He tenderly smooths back Potter’s fringe from his forehead. “What did I do to deserve you, Potter?”

 

__________________

Draco doesn’t need therapy. He needs a routine.

Potter encourages a new routine, having backed off from pressuring him into therapy. Draco soon finds himself sitting in front of his Floo discussing his terms of return with his solicitor. If Draco’s solicitor is at all perplexed by his indecisiveness a mere month later, the man doesn’t show it all, knowing at the of end of their dealings he’ll be sending Draco a bill that’ll probably pay for a summer home somewhere cliché, like in Milan or Paris.

They work out an arrangement with St Mungo’s and the DMLE again, where Draco will continue to brew at home but returning to the hospital and the Ministry on a weekly basis will be cut back to once every fortnight. He doesn’t need the money, as he’s independently wealthy and Potter is, too, but it’s the routine he needs. Routine keeps him grounded. It keeps the intrusive thoughts away the clear majority of the time, and it makes him feel in control of his surroundings. Potter goes to work, comes home, cooks if he’s asked Kreacher not to in advance, and then they’ll go out for long walks around their neighbourhood. Sometimes they’ll stop off for ice cream near Angel station. Potter’s also been working with him on establishing breathing exercises to combat some of his nastier panic attacks after nightmares or when they’re out in public. Draco’s not ready to be around the nightlife in the area, and has continued to turn down invitations to the pubs from his friends. He’d much rather stay at home with Potter, though, free time is hard to come by. Despite the part-time status, this doesn’t stop both institutions from swamping him with as much work as possible, so Draco finds himself utilising the beautifully crafted potions lab Potter built for him in the cellar nearly every day. Cauldrons made from the standard pewter to solid gold, delicate glass measure tools, stir rods and ingredients that are freshly preserved with a stasis charm decorate his lab. The surface of the work table glistens despite several weeks of disuse. He should probably thank Potter’s decrepit elf.

He’s spending more time with his friends – not the usual Friday night Slytherin do, but they meet at coffeehouses during the day when he’s free or will come by Grimmauld Place for dinner. On those nights Potter disappears to visit Weasley and Hermione. Sometimes if the couple can get Molly to babysit Rose, they’ll pop over with takeaway and a game board in hand to spend the evening with him. He had celebrated his twenty-third birthday in the lavish gardens of Grimmauld Place, his friends, the Weasley family, and even his parents joining him to celebrate. It had been an awkward, nevertheless intriguing affair watching Potter stiffly interact with Lucius. His mother had been graceful, showering him with gifts from Paris, hugs, and kisses. He’d even found time to pull Pansy aside, who’s now officially dating Blaise, and apologise to her profusely about his behaviour over the last several months, to which Pansy accepted in tears.

“What are you doing home this early?” Draco asks slowly as he unclasps his cloak. He feels slightly sweaty after a long day of running between department inventories at St Mungo’s. He’s in desperate need of a shower, but the thought of having to navigate the hellish space Potter calls their ensuite gives him pause. “And what is that smell?” Potter, who is shifting through the owl posts and wearing a paisley-covered kitchen apron, looks up and smiles that bold Gryffindor smile that makes Draco feel a bit weak in the knees.

“I filed my proper forms on time for once, so I decided to celebrate with bolognese!” Draco walks up to Potter, placing a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing like doing the bare minimum to warrant a half day off,” he snorts, loosening his tie.

“Did you have a good day?”

“It was productive,” he replies.

“Anything else?” Potter gives him a pointed look. Draco tries to ignore it, sidling up to the owl inbox as well and cringing when he lifts a heavy envelope with fancy calligraphy, no doubt some soiree his parents have invited him to. He tosses it aside.

“What were you expecting?” he asks loftily.

“Nothing.” Potter shrugs. “Do you want wine with your bolognese?”  

Draco tuts, a smirk twitching at his lips. “ _Do I want wine?_ Of course I do.” He pauses to take in Potter's nervous, expectant face. “I was _fine_ today, Potter. A bit anxious, but not as bad as usual. It’s not as if I’m triggered every single time someone bumps into me.” Draco steps away to flop down onto a sofa, pulling his hair free from its ribbon to fall about his shoulders. He languidly exhales.

“I know.”  

“But that’s what you were asking, right? You should practice on your subtlety more, for Merlin’s sake, you’re an Auror. Don’t your lot go undercover? You’re so transparent.” Potter doesn’t say anything as he comes to perch his bum on the arm of the sofa. “I suppose I should learn some new breathing exercises.”

“We can always try humming!” Potter suggests excitedly. “It sounds like a fun way to destress.” Potter starts to hum. Draco cringes at the horrible sounding vibrations coming Potter’s throat, and it’s only after about thirty seconds of listening to the tone-deaf humming that he recognises it as a Spice Girl’s song.

Draco chuckles. “You’re a twat.” Potter doesn’t ease up from his sounds, if anything humming louder. “Please, please, Potter! Stop subjecting me to this torture – I get it! I’ll hum,” he says with a laugh as Potter stops his humming. “You’re impossible.”

“Budge up, why don’t you?” Potter says, sliding from the arm to the sofa when Draco moves back. “I think: relax. Breathe. Rock yourself. Think of a song, and hum it. That’s our new exercise.”

“ _Oh, yeah._ Because _I_ know Muggle songs by heart,” he drawls sarcastically. Potter pokes him in the ribs.

“You say this, but I _know_ I’ve heard you singing Whitney Houston in the shower.”

“I do not,” he says, cheeks warming in mortification. He can’t help it if he’s picked up on the tunes played on the Muggle wireless. Draco shoves him, to which Potter responds with his own shove. They begin to tussle and soon Potter’s arms are wrapped around Draco’s body.

“Are you considering kissing me right now?” Draco asks with a raised brow. “Because I’d really like you to.” Potter meets his gaze with a heated one of his own and hums in approval before pressing Draco’s body into the sofa. His lips lightly brush against Draco’s cheek, the gentle touch sending a shiver through Draco’s whole body. Potter brushes his lips against his cheekbone before his lips are on Draco’s. He pulls Potter closer to him as they kiss carefully, as if the slightest wind between them will break them apart. He knots his fist into Potter’s shirt and groans low in his throat as Potter opens his mouth, their tongues sliding against each other in a slow, tantalising dance.

A spark of courage strikes Draco and he pulls back. “Want to get on top,” he says quickly. Potter nods and helps him straddle his thighs. Potter’s arms go around his waist.

“Are you comfortable?”

Draco nods and cradles Potter’s face in his hands before their mouths meet. And it’s perfect, Draco thinks, his fingers now in Potter’s hair as the kiss becomes frenzied. They kiss vehemently, not at all like the tender kisses they have been prone to do as of late. Potter holds him tighter around his waist as he tugs the bottom of his lip between his teeth. It’s like a fierce and sultry dance as they moan, lick, and gasp against each other’s mouths. Draco’s so enthralled by Potter’s wicked tongue he shamelessly whimpers in the back of his throat, breaths coming out in heavy gusts through his nostrils as his eyes flutter shut and he wraps his arms around Potter’s neck.

Caught in his pleasure, Draco grinds down on Potter and then jerks back, a messy exhale escaping his mouth. “Fuck.” He doesn’t know which side is winning out more – the desire to continue what they’re doing, risking a possible flashback, or simply stopping right now because he can already feel the prickle of unease at the base of his neck. He’s still unsure how he feels about his body. He shudders.

“Hey,” Potter says, one arm still wrapped around his waist as the other pushes Draco’s hair back from his face. “We don’t have to go any further than what we’re doing right now. We have all the time in the world to explore one another.”

“Okay.” Draco inclines forwards, ready to press his lips against Potter’s, but falters. He closes his eyes in shame. The heat from before extinguishes in the pit of his belly like water on embers. After a few moments, Potter shifts under him and their gazes meet. Potter gives him a small, reassuring smile.

“You seem hesitant right now. We can just hold each other, is that okay?” Draco nods dumbly as he clambers off Potter.

“I’m sorry,” Draco mumbles miserably, now sitting beside him. Potter throws an arm around his shoulders.

“You have nothing to be sorry about. You should feel safe, Draco, don’t ever feel sorry for needing that.”

Draco’s overwhelmingly touched by Potter’s affection and comfort, both of which he desperately craves. He leans heavily into Potter’s side. He feels as if the man is a lone prayer in an empty sky, embodied in a sweet whisper of promise that echoes back to him.

_____________

Draco finds living with Potter is possibly the best decision he’s made in a long time. Potter’s personality fills the long halls and empty bedrooms of Grimmauld Place to the brim. His wild dancing to terrible music in the kitchen while cooking brings tears of laughter to Draco’s eyes, Potter’s love for a Seeker’s game of Quidditch keeps Draco active on weekends, and Potter’s gentle and patient hands when they touch makes Draco feel so _good_ about himself. They discuss boundaries and asking before touching. Potter never pushes him to do more than he can handle. Yes, Draco can say without a doubt he’s very happy with him.

Except for one thing.

Their ensuite can be described in one word: dilapidated. The enamel is chipped in the sink, water leaks from the base of the faucet whenever in use, and the clawed tub looks like something from one of those horror films from the 80s Potter’s been renting from Blockbuster, all that’s missing are some bloody handprints over the porcelain tomb-like bath and it could be a direct scene from the films. The shower in the corner is the only thing that seems to function. Draco longs for a proper bath, and making the trek up to the third landing to use an equally run-down tub is grating on his nerves. He’s put up without a proper bathroom for long enough. After complaining about it for the umpteenth time, it seems to have clicked in the speccy git’s mind a change was long overdue.

When Draco arrives home from a meeting with St Mungo’s Head Healer, he’s surprised to find a Ministry owl toting Potter’s spidery scrawl on the front. Carefully removing the piece of parchment from the owl’s talon, he reads the short note:

 

 

 

> _Enjoy your bath._
> 
> _xx_
> 
>  

The once white and black walls are now painted a sage green with soft yellow accents. A freestanding porcelain tub large enough to fit the entire Weasley family sits in the middle of the room. In the corner, sectioned off by large glass doors was the shower, chrome fixtures glinting from the sunlight now pouring in from a brand-new panel of windows. Draco’s speechless as he takes in the new changes. He’s hardly patient as he strips out of his work clothes.

Draco floats on his back in the large tub, noticing the wizard Extension Charms are complex and absolutely brilliant. He stares up at the beautiful crystal chandelier above the tub, elegant, with tear-shaped pendants hanging off it.

He does not think of anything in particular as he floats, but there’s a sudden pounding in his chest.

It’s hot and heavy and for some reason blood pumps through his veins and shoots down to his cock. He tries to ignore it, but the tingling sensation as his cock hardens is too difficult to ignore.

He rights himself in the tub and braces against the edge. Slowly, cautiously, he wraps his hand around his shaft. _Merlin,_  he hasn’t touched himself like this in ages. Not since he lived alone and only just a week after the assault. Potter hasn’t touched his cock since their unfortunate row around the same time, when Draco was having a flashback. He swallows and closes his eyes, focusing on the citrusy scent of the bath water, the heavy feeling of desire roiling in the pit of his belly, the broadness of Potter's shoulders and his capable hands. He gives his cock an experimental tug, trembling and biting back a moan as his foreskin comes down over his sensitive glans. He gives it another stroke and soon his hips are rolling into his fist as he shamelessly wanks in earnest, thoughts of Potter touching him there, stroking him, biting down on his shoulder as he loses himself in thoughts of Potter’s scent, his lips, his strong hands...

When his orgasm hits him, Draco cries out, both in pleasure and in shock. He trembles, clinging to the edge of the tub as he draws in great, heaping breaths. He smiles.

 

“You’re so beautiful.”

Draco scoffs lightly. “I’m hideous.” Draco’s standing before their mirror, his towel wrapped tightly around his narrow hips. He was just going to walk by, not at all interested in looking at this pathetic wet body, but something shifted in him. Perhaps it was that just five minutes ago he had had an orgasm. But now as he stands before the mirror, he realises how much weight he’s lost, having never put much thought into it when dressing because most of his clothes are charmed to resize automatically. He can see ribs against nearly translucent skin, jutting hipbones, and the horrible splinching scar. He’s sickened by the person looking back at him.

“Hey, that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about,” Potter says, bumping his shoulder lightly into his, a small smile twisting his mouth. He must have just gotten in – he’s still in his Auror robes and his hair is windswept. They both look at each other in the mirror and Potter carefully reaches out to clasp their hands together. “Go on,” Potter urges gently. “Look at yourself, Draco.”

He turns back to the mirror, the earlier glow from his orgasm slipping away like water in a cupped hand as he looks at the body that’s failed him. He hasn’t had a successful orgasm until today _._ And although he’s trying to regain the weight he’s lost since the attack, the sinewy definition he’d worked so hard on in the past is gone. He bites his lip, wanting to tear his eyes away from the grotesque thing in the mirror. “Look at you,” Potter says. “You’re beautiful.”

“This isn’t my body,” he gasps, trying not to cry.

“It’s okay, it’s okay to cry.” Potter squeezes his hand.

“I’m so bloody tired of crying,” Draco whispers. “I’m so, so tired of it.”

Potter nods serenely and turns to look at him. “What you’re feeling is completely normal, Draco. That body in the mirror? That body survived. That body conquered. That body loves and is loved. That’s _you,_ Draco.”

The bit of the rumbling discomfort he feels in his chest eases at Potter’s words. He smiles weakly at Potter in the mirror before turning to face him. “Come here,” he says softly. Potter steps closer and Draco throws his arms around him, hugging him tightly, trying to put what he can’t say in words into the hug. Potter squeezes him back just as tightly, planting a kiss in his hair. “I don’t know what I would do without you,” he says.

“I love you,” Potter says, kissing his temple. “You’re going to get through this. One day at a time, alright?” Draco sniffles and nods. The hold each other a bit longer before Draco starts.

“The bath is amazing, thank you. You’ve finally learned some taste,” he gibes.

“I guess you’re rubbing off on me,” Potter says, running his hands up and down Draco’s bare arms. “I brought home takeaway. Thai.”

Draco makes an amused sound. “My own personal house elf, making sure I eat every day. Going to personally escort me down to dinner, too? Mm? Pour my portions, and refill my wine glasses, too?” he asks, shooting him a wry smile.

“Of course, Master Draco, sir! I is a good elf!” Potter says, pitching his voice high to imitate a house elf.

A startled laugh escapes Draco. “Potter, you are an idiot,” _but I love you anyway_ , goes unsaid.

_______________

Draco finishes his brews of Anti-Paralysis Potions and Pepperup Potion for St Mungo’s earlier than planned. Sweaty and exhausted, he bottles the last of his creations, placing them in small vials, and situating them in slots within a large trunk especially designed with an undetectable Extension Charm. He adds a Protection Charm for good measure. When he’s done, he enters the kitchen from the cellar and immediately notices the lack of herbs and spices in the air he usually associates with Potter cooking. The kitchen is empty. Pristine. Not even Kreacher is lurking about.

Curious, he makes his way up to the first floor, footsteps heavy on the creaky staircase. Since the remodelling of the ensuite, Potter’s been making small changes to Grimmauld – freshly painted walls, carpet, and new furniture for the bedroom and sitting room as a start. Draco’s urged Potter to decorate in the French Colonial style after seeing pictures of the style from Pansy who just spent a fortnight with Blaise in New Orleans, Louisiana in America.

He checks the second floor, checks their bedroom and finds the bedding immaculately made, and for once Potter’s clothing isn’t thrown across the shiny hardwood floors. He closes the door and makes his way to the hallway loo, finding it’s also empty.  

He makes his way to Potter’s personal study, which is far smaller than Draco’s. Draco’s study consists of the Black Library and is decorated in black, white, and grey tones. The larger study has a spiralling staircase that extends three storeys with the use of a permanent Extension Charms. He also has a grand piano, an elaborate work table, and multiple armchairs surrounding a well-built fireplace. Potter’s study is so…Potter, as in, completely Gryffindor. Scarlet with glinting gold accents, one armchair with a side table beside it, a modest fireplace which will never be used for Floo, one bookshelf and a thick, oak table pushed up against a wall, a tattered leather swivel chair in front of it. Draco smiles as he takes in Potter sleeping in the battered microfibre armchair in his office, his glasses pushed into his hair, a low light now burning in the scones around the room. There’s a dog-eared book open mid-way resting on Potter’s chest and Draco cocks his head to read the title: _Healing the Soul: Helping Your Partner Through Trauma._ There’s a funny flopping in his chest. He knew Potter was trained in dealing with civilians who survive assault, but he had no idea he was reading up on it. It makes him feel warm. And a little bit sad.

Draco’s thinking about waking him when something flickers in the corner of his eye. Draco looks down at the side table and notices a slight glimmer around the sheaf of parchment and coffee mug sat there. He doesn’t stop to overthink why he’s pulling his wand out, hands trembling as he raps his wand on the side table muttering _Specialis Revelio._ His jaw clenches when he notices the glimmer indeed reveals a charm that’s hiding three well-read scrolls. He eyes Potter. Seeing the other man’s head is tilted back, mouth slightly open, with a bit of drool crusting at the corner of his lips, Draco decides to quickly read the scrolls, too anxious to know why Potter would go to the trouble of hiding them. 

 

 

> 05.06.2003
> 
> _Dear Auror Potter,_
> 
>  
> 
> _Below you will find the details of the record in question. Sorry I cannot be of more help._
> 
>  
> 
> _All the best,_
> 
> _Casey Flint_
> 
> _Records Manager, DMLE_
> 
>  
> 
> **_Case Number:_ ** _0093741_
> 
> **_Name:_ ** _RETRACTED_
> 
> **_Date of Incident:_ ** _21/02/2003_
> 
> **_Status:_ ** _Under the Protection of Victims Act, This Record Has Been Legally Sealed. Please Contact DMLE Prosecution Office for Further Information._
> 
>  

_\-------------------_

> _08.06.2003_
> 
> _Auror Potter,_
> 
> _As per my last missive concerning Case Number: 0093741, it is simply impossible for me to provide you any kind of update on the status of this record with New Scotland Yard. Re: DMLE to Muggle Prosecution Procedural Methods. There is a Sealing Order in place that restricts the access and/or disclosure of any documents pertaining to cases  currently under investigation within the Muggle jurisdiction. Specifically, under the Protection of Victims Act, these records are unavailable both to the public as well as to those within the DMLE for the protection of the victim. Only myself, the Muggle Chief Crown Prosecutor, the initial answering Aurors, and police officers on call for this case are privy to the information._
> 
> _Whereas I understand you have a vested interest in the proceedings of this particular case, my offices will not be strong-armed into ignoring procedure: we will not and cannot break the chain of procedure to push along this case. I am providing you with a warning, Auror Potter. Please cease and desist from contacting my office concerning this case or you will be censured. We will inform all parties involved with this case when further information is available._
> 
> _The Department of Magical Law Enforcement Prosecution Office is committed to serving the interests of the People and assure you we are doing our utmost best at bringing justice to those who are affected every day at the hands of criminals._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Abigail Smethwick_
> 
> _DMLE Chief Wizengamot Prosecutor_
> 
>  

\-------------------

 

> _10.06.2003_
> 
> _Harry,_
> 
> _I trust you know what you’re up against going above Smethwick to push this case to the top of the Muggle Chief Crown Prosecutor’s enormous pile. I’m happy you’re not keen on unsealing this record for your own eyes, as that would have certainly caused a delay. You owe me._
> 
> _Kingsley_

 

 

Draco’s surroundings feel a bit unfocused, ungrounded. There’s a sense of emptiness he hasn’t felt since… He swallows. He carefully places the scrolls back on Potter’s side table and replaces the Disillusion Charm on them. Quietly exiting the study, Draco heads down to the kitchen again, deciding to make a cup of tea. He goes through the motions, fixing a small pot of Assam, loading a tray with the tea pot, cup, milk, and sugar. He heads out to the sitting room to relax with a book.

He’s curled up in an armchair and a good distance into a bizarrely interesting book Hermione has bestowed on him called _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ , when his heart stutters against his ribcage.

He feels so fucking helpless that all he can do is toss the book aside and bury his head into his hands with a sob. _Why_ would Potter do this? How could he push along Draco’s file without asking for his permission first? He’s been so busy trying not to fall apart because of the assault it hasn’t crossed his mind what he would do if his case went to court. He feels as if he’s been tricked into standing above a trap door, noticing much too late he’s going to go crashing to his doom, and Potter’s the one who has tricked him into standing there. Hot, frustrated tears begin to fall down his cheeks.

His head snaps up when he hears a noise off in the corner. He can see Kreacher’s milky eyes staring back at him, two beams of eerie light in the darkness. The elf moves towards him.

“ _Go away!_ ” he hisses through his tears, but the elf continues to approach him, not at all unnerved by Draco. “You bloody disobedient, ugly fucking _thing!_ I said go away!”

“Young Master Black is being hurt. Young Master Black should be understanding Kreacher is not enemy, but loyal servant to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Kreacher is being caring for its heirs now over 650 years, even heirs like ungrateful Young Master Black, no mattering Kreacher’s feelings.” The elf carefully approaches him, head cocked to the side.

Draco hangs his head, Kreacher’s words soaking into him. “I’m sorry, Kreacher…please, don’t tell Potter…about what you’ve seen here. I’m sorry,” he says, lips quivering as he shrinks back into himself. “I just don’t want him to worry.” When Kreacher is just mere inches away from him, the elf conjures a soft handkerchief, lifting it in one wrinkled hand to gingerly mop away the tears on Draco’s cheeks.

“Young Master Black is be knowing what to do,” Kreacher says quietly as he wipes up Draco’s tears and snot. Startled by the elf’s kindness, Draco’s unable to respond. Confounded, he simply stares down at him. “Young Master Black is be needing to remember who he is,” Kreacher says solemnly before popping out of existence, leaving the handkerchief behind. The fabric floats down onto Draco’s lap. When he spreads it out over his knee, he finds in the corner of the soft material _D.L.M._ embroidered in green curly font.

_________________

Draco puts the troubling letters he found in Potter’s office and his subsequent break down out of mind. The days trickle on and turn into weeks and he still doesn’t bring it up, even though Kreacher’s words play over in his head daily. Like so many other things in Draco’s life right now, he approaches the situation with confusion, indecisiveness, and anxiety. Simply put, on one hand, he wants justice. On the other, he wants peace. It seems nearly impossible for the two to be achieved simultaneously. But Draco’s trying to remember who he is.

It started off as a regular day. Potter woke him up. Sat across from him during breakfast. Encouraged him to eat more toast and drink more tea. Then Potter kissed him goodbye and headed off to work while he made his way to the cellar where his potion lab is to work. It was only when he came back up to the sitting room around lunchtime that he noticed the official looking owl sitting beside his owl Athena on her perch. Dread filled his belly.

He rips away the seal on the parchment. Reads the letter three times before it actually sinks in.

The Aurors caught the stranger with assistance from the Muggle Aurors – the police. He was required to come down to the place called New Scotland Yard to arrange for an official police identity parade in one week. He feels—well, he doesn’t know how he feels. He should feel elated by this, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders thanks to Potter. But he doesn’t feel anything. He places the letter back down, feeds the owl a treat and watches as it takes off through the open window. He shrugs the letter off, entering the kitchen to throw together lunch. He eats a salad in relative peace, flipping through _Potions Quarterly_ as he eats. He doesn’t think about the letter when he’s back in his lab, meticulously slicing up a bat’s spleen. He doesn’t even think about it when he’s back in the sitting room, shuffling through the rest of the post.

No. He doesn’t think about it until he’s in their bedroom later that evening, searching for his favourite oversized jumper to combat some of the chill of Grimmauld, as the house never seems to hold a Warming Charm or allow a proper charm to hold on the caster. It’s bloody June and there’s still a draft in the place. His frustration builds as he pushes around the stuff in the drawers looking for it. He slams it shut, hands coming up to grip his hair. It’s supposed to be in the fucking top drawer. He knows he’s being irrational. It’s just a bloody jumper, but it isn’t here, where he knows he _specifically placed it_ , where he _needs_ it to be, and it drives him fucking crazy. The room starts to spin and he stumbles over to the bed, leaning against the footboard for support, waiting for the world to right itself, but it doesn’t and he finds himself on the floor, landing roughly on his bum. He feels as if he’s in a tailspin, rapidly heading towards rock bottom without knowing how far the drop is. It feels endless and he’s crippled with fear. _Relax. Breathe. Rock yourself. Think of a song and hum it,_ says Potter’s voice in his head. With a whimper, he folds his legs and grips his knees with shaking hands, rocking back and forth. He tries to recall the Muggle pop song he heard yesterday on the wireless and hums it as he tilts forward and back. He closes his eyes, the fear lodged in his chest easing away as he focuses on the rocking sensation, and the way his throat vibrates as he hums the chorus of the song over and over again.

“Draco?” Potter opens the bedroom door, a curious look on his face as he peers around the door. “Oh! Merlin, are you all right?” he asks, stepping into the room now and crouching down in front of him. His Auror robe hangs open. Draco gawps. Potter is wearing _his_ jumper. He reaches a hand out to grip the front of the slate blue cashmere material, nearly yanking Potter to his knees in the process.

“You’re…hmm…a fucking…hmm… _idiot…_ ” he hisses between his hums. He lets go of Potter then, who’s staring back at him as if he’s grown a second head.

“What’s caused this?”

Draco points a finger at Potter, his eyes narrowing. “You did this. _You_.”

“What did I do?” At Potter’s alarmed expression, Draco’s lips curl upward in a sneer. Potter’s a superb actor, he thinks. How can he pretend he doesn’t know the harm he’s caused? Meddling with his case, his _life_ , and now to add insult to injury, wearing his special jumper.

“Just leave me alone,” he wheezes out.

“Draco, I don’t under—”

“—Potter! Just leave me alone right now!” he nearly screams, not moving from his position on the floor. His breathing is coming out in short, laborious pants. Potter straightens up and gives him a forfeiting nod before exiting the bedroom. Draco draws his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs, ceasing in his humming. Now alone, throat tingling, Draco realises the silence around him is incredibly loud, nearly deafening.

_______________________

 

Draco has withdrawn into himself again, anxiety growing to insurmountable levels. He takes to visiting only Pansy right after he finishes work in the potion’s lab. Potter is now aware that Draco’s due at New Scotland Yard in one week and believes this is the full reason for his behaviour. Potter’s tried to corner him about it many times.

 

They’re in the bedroom, both preparing for Rose’s first birthday party. Why in the hell did he ever think becoming friendly with the Weasley clan was a good idea? Though, even as he thinks this, he wouldn’t miss Rose’s birthday for anything.

“I know you’re upset because you’ll eventually have to face him again.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. He’s flipping through his clothes in the wardrobe, wondering what’s appropriate to wear to a baby’s birthday party.

Potter sighs. “Your appointment with New Scotland Yard is _next_ _week_ , Draco. We need to talk about it. I mean, this is such a positive step forward—”

“Yeah? And will you be saying the same thing when I misidentify him? Or if they bring in the wrong guy? What if…what if I can’t _look_ …”

“Draco, listen to me—” Potter starts towards him, his hand reaching out to touch him, but Draco slaps it away.

“I don’t want to bloody listen to you. I’m tired of listening to you, you’re full of shite.”

Potter reels back so fast Draco’s surprised he doesn’t fall backwards. He quickly recovers and crosses his arms against his broad chest. “If you’re not up for Rosie’s birthday,” Potter says. “I’ll let Hermione know and we can stay in.”

 _Merlin_. The audacity of him—Potter seems to be jumping to conclusions without his explicit input for everything now. “ _No_ , we can go,” he says resolutely.

“Are you sure? If you’re not up for it–”

“I said we can go!” Draco snaps, slamming shut the wardrobe doors. “I want to take a bath first, so why don’t you go get dressed, preferably _not_ something you grab from the floor of our bedroom, and meet me at Hermione’s.”

Potter’s eyebrows furrow in a frown, his lips pursing. “There’s no need to become so cross, Draco. I’ll just meet you at Hermione and Ron’s so you can calm down and get ready,” Potter says carefully. Draco doesn’t respond, he simply grabs a towel and heads into the ensuite, slamming the door behind him.

 

“Buggering hell, you look like death warmed up,” Weasley says as soon as Draco steps out of their fireplace and into their lounge. He’s carrying a large, brightly wrapped present in his hands. He had convinced Potter to buy Rose a magical mini-version of Diagon Alley, fit with moving witches and wizards, and several books Draco hopes she doesn’t own yet. The room is bursting in bright coloured streamers hanging from the ceiling, balloons of comical, and frankly, _terrifying_ creatures he’s never seen before attached to the back of chairs. A sparkling banner sits curved above the mantel that reads, _“Happy First Birthday, Rosie!”_ Draco thinks it’s all a bit too much for a baby who won’t ever remember this level of fawning as he sits the present down on a table already groaning under the weight of gifts. He clenches his jaw and glares at the man— Weasley’s grown into his lanky body, slightly jutting ears, and long nose. He’s been sporting a full beard for almost a month now and he looks _marginally_ better with it. Not that Draco will ever admit that out loud.

“Rough week with the Ministry,” he says, voice dipping low. He’s happy for the distraction in the shape of a babbling Rose crawling towards him.

“Up,” she demands. Draco quirks a smile at her haughtiness that’s all Hermione. He bends down to gather the baby up and as soon as he does, Rose presses a hand to his cheek, a curious look on her round face. For some reason, this causes him to feel oddly self-conscious – as if this child has clearly seen through the lie he had just told her father. _For fuck’s sake_ , he _is_ losing the plot. He gives Rose a shaky little smile. “Happy Birthday, my little Rose,” he says thickly. He hastily walks over to where Weasley sits in an armchair sipping on a drink and lazily flipping through the wireless. He hands the baby over. “She looks beautiful, as always,” Draco compliments as Weasley takes her from him. He means it. She’s dressed in a majestic peach-coloured chiffon tutu dress, a matching coloured flower headband in her wild, copper coloured curls.

“Draco,” says Hermione. She comes into the room, a tray of mixed drinks and a bottle in her hands, Potter following behind her with an expression on his face that wouldn’t be out of place on someone attending a funeral. She’s also dressed in a peach-coloured dress, though hers is a simple Bardot dress that ends right above her knees. It brings out the cool rosy undertones of her tawny-brown skin, her own wild curls shaped like a cloud around her head. Her warm smile fades as she takes in Draco’s exhausted face. “Oh dear, Harry was just telling me about your rough week,” she says, sitting the tray on the low coffee table and coming up to him. Draco glances over at Potter, surprised they both came up with the same excuse. “For what it’s worth, thank you for showing up.”

“I wouldn’t miss little Rose’s party for the world,” he responds.

 

By the time the party is in full swing with a sea of obnoxiously loud red-haired adults and screaming children, Draco’s pretty drunk. _Poor us_ , he thinks as Potter watches him through careful eyes from across the garden, _standing around all these happy people._

“Why on God’s green earth would a grown woman wear a miniskirt to a child’s birthday party?” Hermione asks angrily. He snaps his full attention to her, he had been dispassionately listening to her discuss recent legislation or some other for centaurs. He looks over his shoulder to see Pansy has arrived, and she is indeed wearing a skirt so short it barely covers the cheeks of her arse. He covers a snort with a cough, aware Hermione is quietly fuming in front of him as her glare zeroes in on Pansy.

“It’s not _that_ short,” he quips. She turns her icy gaze onto him.

“It’s so short, I can see her hot pink knickers, Draco! For fuck’s sake, I don’t know why I try with her, I don’t! Look, I’ll be right back,” Hermione says, stomping over to Weasley and pulling him down to fiercely whisper in his ear. Draco catches Pansy’s eye, and she waves jovially at him before turning to face an approaching Blaise, his arms spread wide as he gives her an appreciative smile, no doubt complimenting her choice of outfit.

“We need to talk,” Potter says from behind him.

Draco’s body tenses. He refuses to face Potter. “I’m not really interested in talking about whatever it is you’re itching to talk about, Potter.” He drains the rest of his whisky and cranes his neck to glance over at the makeshift bar — a table teeming with all sorts of drinks warded against anyone underaged. He had been surprised at first they were serving alcohol at a baby’s party, but Hermione said Ron had insisted for the sake of his brothers.

“C’mon, Draco. If there’s an issue, I’d like it if we talked it out, just get it out there so we can tackle it together.”

“Oh?” Draco starts sardonically, spinning on his heels to face Potter. “I wasn’t afforded the chance to _talk things out_ with you about my case, right Potter? You saw fit to ignore judicial procedure because you’re _fucking_ Harry Potter, right? Why ask your boyfriend, the survivor of the crime, what he wants to do?”

Potter looks rattled. “Draco—”

“Don’t,” he bites.

“Please, can we just…can we just go somewhere a bit more private?” Potter intones in a low voice. It’s then that Draco notices the glass of amber liquid in Potter’s hand. He deftly plucks it from his hands before downing half of it, the liquid searing a hot path down his throat.

“Whatever, Potter,” he says, walking towards Hermione and Weasley’s back entrance to their cottage. The door shuts behind him and a moment later it opens and closes, Potter close on his heels. Thankfully, the house is blissfully empty as the guests are outside enjoying the weather. Draco places both glasses on an end table before leading them up the stairs to the guest bedroom on the first floor, quietly shutting the door behind them.

“Draco, I just want to —” Potter starts. Draco cuts him off.

“Shut up and let me speak,” he demands. “You’ve confirmed my worst fears, Potter, by going behind my back and arranging my case to be pushed to the top. I knew you would only see me as a victim. It’s one of the reasons I hesitated in coming to you about the attack.” His voice is cold and detached. The expression on Potter’s face is proof enough to Draco that he’s landing blows. “I knew you would make me out to be some hopeless, used-up coward that needs his Golden Boyfriend, The Prat Who Won’t Die, to come in and save him.”

“None of what you’re saying has even an iota of truth to it! You continue to show me every single day just how strong and brave you are, I would never do anything to diminish your strength or make you feel like a victim. I’d never _think_ of you as a victim! I was trying to help.”

“I didn’t _ask_ you for help on this! What you did? It wasn’t _your_ choice! It should have been mine and you took that away from me. This is _my_ life! _Mine_. You don’t get to dictate what is right or wrong for me. Only I can do that!” Draco screams. Potter stands before him and he looks lost. He runs a hand through his black locks, curling against the collar of his shirt, and fixes Draco with a terrified expression.

“I’m so sorry,” Potter says in a shaky voice.

“I’m tired of people controlling me, trying to _own_ me. I’m my own person. I deserve to make my own decisions.”

“I guess I just thought a push in the right direction would help with your healing.”

“What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing, eh, Potter? I think I’ve been doing a pretty decent job at pulling myself together.”

“Draco,” Potter starts softly and Draco can detect pity in his voice, “you _know_ that’s not completely true.”

Draco shoves his hands in his pocket, lifting his chin. “I’m _trying_ , Potter. Having you deny me the chance to address the situation isn’t helping me get my shit together, either. Who’s to say I didn’t want this case to ever be looked at again? Maybe I wanted the file to fall through the cracks of bureaucracy. Maybe I would have enquired about the status of the case myself when I was mentally ready! I’ll never fucking know, because you _took that away_.”

“You’re _right_. I _never_ should have gone behind your back. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I would _never_ , _ever_ hurt you.”

“Well, you did.”

A moment goes by and Potter breaks into tears, his shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry,” Potter says dejectedly, hands wringing at his waist. “I’ve been trying so hard to understand you while not pressuring you and…and I fucked up. Draco. I see how hard you struggle, what you go through every day. I want to help you unburden as much of your pain as possible but sometimes I’m so lost as to _how_ and I thought—I thought I could do _this,_ make this one less thing you have to worry about on your own. I’m sorry.”

Draco wants to stay mad even though Potter has a woefully mournful look on his face. He finds he can’t. Potter may be a trained Auror, he may have read books on trauma, he may have firsthand experience with trauma, panic attacks and breathing exercises, and _fuck_ , he’s the bloody _Saviour_ ...but Draco knows Potter is _not_ perfect. And further to the point, Potter has not experienced what Draco has experienced and will never come close to fully grasping what is going on in his head. Draco can stay mad at him, yes. He can let this ruin their relationship, yes. It would be so easy to let this drive a wedge between them, if only the thought didn’t make him feel as if he’s tipped headfirst into a black hole of despair. In two strides Draco is in front of Potter, wrapping his arms around the sobbing man. “We’re both trying,” Draco says, some of the anger bleeding away from him at the sound of Potter’s crying. He runs his hands through Potter’s thick hair. Potter pulls back and looks him in the eyes, the low lights in the room and tears making his green eyes iridescent. Draco uses the sleeve of his black thin cotton shirt to wipe away Potter’s tears. “Don’t ever, _ever_ take away my choice to choose again. I’m still cross with you, but, we’ll get through this, too.”

Potter nods. “I love you,” he says. “I promise to do better.”

The declaration sends a shiver down his spine. That’s all Draco wants. For everything to get better, no matter how difficult or painful it may be getting there, he _wants_ it, and if Potter is willing to join him for the ride then Draco needs to know he can rely on him. He hums approvingly. “Let’s go back to the party,” he says softly, leaning in to kiss Potter’s cheek. He takes Potter’s trembling hand in his and it feels like things have shifted and slotted together. It feels like growth.

____________________

They take a taxi to 10 Broadway, as Potter says the area is too concentrated with Muggles to Apparate into. The ride there is bumpy and he slides from side to side in the leather seat with every insane turn the cabbie makes. Potter, somehow, doesn’t budge an inch during these turns and Draco glares at him from the corner of his eyes in envy.

Navigating the police station is fairly uncomplicated when they arrive; he lets Potter do all the talking to the solemn-looking Muggles. They follow the police officer Potter’s talking to. Draco only snaps to attention in the busy entrance when they tell him he must do the identity parade _today._ “No, we’re just supposed to schedule the bloody thing!”

“Sorry, but it’s a matter of timing, sir…”

“I’m not ready,” he whispers to Potter, who shakes his head slowly with a stupid, confused look on his equally stupid-looking face. What can be _possibly_ be confused about? Evil rapist plus mentally unstable assault survivor equals _not in this fucking lifetime or beyond_ does he ever want to see his attacker’s face again. He honestly thought he’d have more _time_ to avoid the unavoidable. “I can’t see him. No—!” he shouts. He can feel the flush creeping across his cheeks as the police officer leading them into the hellish bowels of the station peers back at them.  

“Are your officers able to provide an alternative means to identify the suspect?” Potter asks the officer, his voice taking on that authoritative “I’m an Auror” voice Draco’s heard him use during his visits to the Ministry.

The officer gives Draco a sympathetic glance before looking back at Potter. “I’m afraid not, sir. There’s rumours the branch out in West Yorkshire is developing some sort of digital system, but it’s not out yet.”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Draco says flatly, halting in his steps towards the parade. He’s  trembling and damn it, he doesn’t want to lose it in the middle of this Muggle police station. “I can’t do this!”

“Do you think you can give us some privacy?” Potter asks the officer who nods and continues walking down the corridor, leaving them alone. Draco  feels too hot, his heart beats too fast and – oh Merlin, he can’t breathe. He gasps, eyes darting around the empty corridor in panic as Potter reaches for his hand to gently tug him into the closest men’s loo. Potter places a hand on each of his shoulders when the doors shut behind them. “Look at me, Draco.” Draco cuts his eyes from the garish blue tile of the men’s floor to Potter’s gentle gaze. “I want you to take a moment and meditate with me here, yeah?” Potter asks soothingly. Draco finds himself nodding. “Close your eyes. I want you to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.” Draco does. “That’s it, good. Excellent. Let your breath just flow right from the centre of your stomach… breathe in. Good. Out. Again. Yes. See how your breathing is centring you? Gathering and pushing out all that bad energy? You’re doing so well, Draco. When you’re ready, I want you to open your eyes, okay?” Draco nods, his body calming down as the deep breathing and Potter’s soothing voice eases the erratic thudding of his heart. Draco opens his eyes and slouches forward. Potter catches him in an embrace. He drops his head onto Potter’s broad shoulder and sighs.

“Thank you,” he mumbles against him. “How the hell are you getting so good at this?” he asks, lifting his head up. There’s a flush of a toilet from the only stall in the loo and they both freeze. Potter doesn’t remove his arms as an elderly man steps out, shooting them both a smile before washing his hands and quickly exiting the loo.

“Reckon I should’ve checked for people first,” Potter says, a line creasing the middle of his forehead as he looks at the door the man exits. Potter smiles. “I need breathing exercises sometimes too, you know,” he says softly, reaching up to caress Draco’s cheek. “If you really, really, want to get out of here, I’ll tell the officer we’re not doing this and we’ll leave. It took a lot of courage for you to even come down here, we’ll understand if that’s enough for today.”

“It doesn’t have to be today?” he asks in a tiny, unsure voice.

“Not if you don’t want it to be. I’ll make sure of it, procedure be damned.”

He knows what to do.

He can decide to live the rest of his days in fear. He can live the rest of his days giving into this monster. Or, he can fight back. He might fail terribly at bringing this monster to justice, but at least he would have fucking _tried,_ instead of accepting the injustice. Simply put, Draco can keep letting this eat away at him, or he can fully take back control of his life.

 

When he steps into the small, poorly lit room with a wall entirely made with a black-tinted mirror, Draco recognises the Aurors who were present at St Mungo’s after his assault, both dressed in all-black Muggle clothing. They greet him politely, and they both greet Potter grandly with strong handshakes and equally grand smiles. Potter is curt with them, his eyes so sharp in a glare it could cut through diamonds. Draco would have tucked himself in a corner to avoid their subtle but obvious hero-worshipping if it weren’t for Potter holding his hand.

When the Muggle police officer announces _it’s time_ , Draco freezes. The officer switches a light on. The black-tinted mirror now becomes sees through to the room beyond it and a procession of seven men marches in before a lined backdrop of a wall before turning to face him.

Draco chokes back a sob, his eyes quickly filling with tears. “Can he see me?” he asks, panicked, turning wide eyes to Potter and the officer. They both shake their heads and Draco swallows deeply as he starts to nod. He turns back to the seemingly magical looking glass. The stranger eerily stares back at him, his brown eyes shrewd, mousy brown hair neatly combed to the side, and skin pale as ever. Draco’s knees buckle and he nearly goes crashing to the ground, but Potter pulls him flush against him, arms wrapping tight around his waist to hold him up. Draco buries his face into his shoulder and _howls._ He cries, and cries, and cries. He doesn’t care if he sounds like a wounded animal because he’s being squeezed and choked with grief, having stared straight into the eyes of a monster. He can hardly hear the, _“take your time,”_ and _‘it’s okay”_ comments from the people around him. This is the monster who has haunted his dreams for months. A monster who violated not just his body, but his soul.

When his sobs subside, he pulls away from Potter, not caring how wretched he looks as he steps up to the looking glass, his watery gaze boring into the dead eyes of his attacker. “Number four,” he moans. Just as he’s blindly reaching out to grasps Potter’s hand, Potter’s already reaching out in search for his. “ _Number four,_ ” he repeats again, firmer this time. “That’s the man who raped me.”

“We’ll be passing this up to the inspectorates of the Crown Prosecution Service,” the officer reassures him. Draco turns towards Potter again, burying his face in his shoulder as a fresh wave of tears overcome him. “You’ve done an excellent job here today, sir.”

Potter presses a soft kiss to his temple, muttering words of encouragement and praise. Draco has never felt so tattered, so utterly exhausted before in his life—but he did it.

 

He exhales the breath he’s been holding for months.

________________

Dean Thomas of all people stands by the door to the small office building Draco was directed to by Siobhan. He had pulled out the card she had given him all those months ago at St Mungo’s. It had taken her less than an hour to respond to his owl. She had recommended an independent therapist, one who works with male Muggles and wizards only, located out in Shepherd’s Bush.

Draco had been expecting a middle-aged man with tweed trousers and an oversized jumper. Not someone his own age and certainly not someone he knows. He hasn’t seen Thomas since Christmas at the Burrow. It was now mid-July.

“Draco, it’s been a while, welcome,” Dean greets him warmly, extending a hand Draco takes.

“You’re _here_ . Does that mean...Was it—was it at the _Manor?_ ” He blurts out. _Fuck_. He wants to kick himself because, Merlin, where the fuck did his manners go? He has no right to ask, should not be allowed to – isn’t that the case with therapists? The association is one-sided? He doesn’t know all the monstrous shite that went on in the Manor under the Dark Lord’s reign, and Thomas was vulnerable then, injured, wandless...His heart clenches at the mere thought. Dean’s hand falls away and he looks perplexed before a flash of understanding graces his features. “I’m so sorry to even mention it. I don’t know what I was thinking,” Draco quickly adds. He can already tell he’s probably blotchy all over his cheeks and neck.

Dean smiles. “This is a safe space,” he says kindly. “Don’t be ashamed to ask questions, though, I believe that due to our past, this will require us to be a bit more casual than the usual therapist-patient relationship, but everything will still remain professional and confidential. If you’re okay with that, so am I. And no, Draco, it was not at the Manor. I was sexually assaulted during a trip to the Netherlands five years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says reverently. Dean gives him an identical look of compassion.

“I’m sorry, too. But you’re here to talk it through, yeah?”

“Yes,” Draco says, his voice high-pitched. He blushes and clears his throat. “I want you to be my therapist.”

“Come in,” Dean starts, stepping back from the doorway. “Let’s get started.”

___________________

He strips off all his clothing, standing proudly before the full-length mirror and looking over his body. This is _my_ body. _I’m_ in control of it. _This is mine_ , he tells himself with fervour as he caresses his chest down to his lower abdomen. He nods at his reflection, biting his bottom lip when he decides the idea that’s been floating around in his head for the last couple of days doesn’t sound too bad. Dean had thought it was a great stepping stone. They’ve been working towards tackling his rape trauma, body image issues, and depression. Dean has urged one step at a time, and he’s been living by that method. Last week Draco had told Potter the entire events that transpired the night he was assaulted, and even though he had to take several breaks and had cried to the point of getting a headache, he finally unburdened himself to Potter, and Potter held him through it.

He swallows a ball of nervous energy and walks over to the armchair where he’s thrown his favourite Slytherin green silk dressing gown. He quickly dons it, exits the bedroom before he chickens out, and heads downstairs to the main sitting room. He finds Potter half lying, half sitting up on the sofa, a pillow propping him up with his knees spread apart and his hands clasped over his stomach. He watches a film on the television of a car flipping dramatically over an exploding lorry. He moves to stand in front of the television. Potter’s brows climb towards his hairline, but he doesn’t ask him what he’s doing.

“I want to try something with you.”

“Okay,” Potter says simply and with a wave of his hand the telly clicks off. He quickly sits upright and watches Draco with curious eyes.

“It involves nudity.”

Potter clears his throat. “All right,” he says.

“I want to get naked in front of you and I want you to look at me. Are you okay with that?”

Potter’s eyes darken in a tell-tale sign of desire but he stays seated and clears his throat once more before nodding. “Yes, I’m okay with that,” he says smoothly, obviously trying not to sound too affected.

Emboldened by Potter’s tone and approval, Draco grasps the folds of his dressing gown with the hooks of his index fingers at the opening of the robe, slowly pulling the robe apart from the neck, allowing the cool, expensive silk to sensually caress his skin as it slides down his arms to catch on his elbows, and fall to pool around his bare feet.

What feels like several years pass—he doesn’t realise his eyes are closed or that he’s shaking— until hands come up to tenderly hold his. He flinches, eyes flying open to find Potter standing before him. “Hey,” Potter starts softly, his gaze loving and full of compassionate understanding. “It’s just me.” Draco nods and sags against Potter, physically and emotionally spent, but it’s okay. Strong arms quickly come around to embrace his quivering naked body. He buries his face in the crook of Potter’s neck and inhales his scent. He hasn’t felt this safe in a long time. “I’m so proud of you,” Potter whispers in his ear. “You’re so brave, Draco.”

 

All he can do is cling to Potter, letting the small praises lift him like a sacred answered prayer.


	5. Chapter Five

“Potter.”

“Yeah?”

“I need you.”

“I’m right here, Draco.”

He’s curled up in the window couch of Potter’s large bay windows on the ground floor looking out onto the street, the Muggle park adjacent from Grimmauld Place. It’s a beautiful late September afternoon, summer still trying to cling. Draco can see the small children chasing one another, their faces open with laughter, giggles muted against the charms of Grimmauld. He can see the couples lounging in the grass, hands clasped tightly together. He can see the old couples sitting on benches, talking quietly to one another.

“No, Potter. I _want_ you.” Draco looks over his shoulder to watch Potter put away the metal watering can for the plants that now decorate the sitting room. His eyes follow Potter in a heated stare as he makes his way to the cosy couch of the windowsill, lifting Draco’s feet to place them in his lap with a small sigh, fingers stretching out across the expanse of Draco’s soft, pale skin before turning his head to briefly stare out the window.

“Okay,” Potter says quietly, giving Draco a fond look.

Draco turns to stare out at the park again, body thrumming. “I want you to make love to me.”

Today is no different from any other day. They’re lounging about this weekend – Potter still donning his horrendous weekend clothing of baggy jeans and too tight t-shirt with grease stains. Draco’s still meandered about Grimmauld, dog-eared Muggle romance novel and the new  _Potion’s Quarterly_ in hand. The only difference is the feeling in his gut as he stares out at the world changing before him. He wants to change, too. He _is_ changing _._ He consumes the bright green grass, the people in the park, the Muggle automobiles cruising down the street, and heat warming the glass his fingers are now sprawled against. Potter caresses his foot. He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against the glass of the window. It all feels within his reach, peace and justice and love and trust – things he had once been so afraid of.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Draco says, now gazing into Potter’s soft, compassionate eyes. That three-lettered answer conveys such a wealth of meaning and confidence Draco did not know he was still capable of producing. “I’m ready, Potter. Take me to bed.” A smile tugs at his lips.

 

Once in their bedroom, Draco stands before the bed, Potter a few feet away from him. Draco’s arms are lax and loose at his sides, but he can’t help but fidget. He watches as Potter shuts the bedroom door, turning to face him with an equal look of shyness, his cheeks flushed red, and a smile gracing his mouth. Draco counts the months – one, two, three, four, five, _six, seven_ months. _Seven_ long months since Potter has touched him beyond a heated snog or a gentle caress.

“Watch me,” he whispers as he carefully unbuttons his shirt, does away with his trousers and pants. It’s not long before he’s standing naked before Potter.

“You’re so beautiful, Draco. So, so beautiful.”

“Come here,” Draco whispers.

Potter steps a bit closer to him, a hint of hesitation on his face as he asks, “Where can I touch you?”

Draco breaks out into a peal of shivers, desire roiling low in his belly. Potter doesn’t move towards his shaking form, he waits patiently, his eyes so full of compassion and love Draco feels a bit faint.

“Here,” he says, voice barely audible, caressing his neck, shoulders, arm, and chest. “Touch me here.”

Potter closes the distance between them, fingers dancing down the sides of his long neck, spilling out across his narrow shoulders, and down his arms. Draco’s cock now juts from his body, hard and leaking against the rough material of Potter’s jeans. He gasps at the friction, as well as the soft, kneading sensation of Potter’s fingers, his eyes fluttering shut, body trembling forcefully. “Is this okay?” Potter whispers, his voice floating by like a breeze. “We can stop whenever, if it becomes too much.”

Draco swallows. “It’s so good, please,” he whimpers, eyes still closed. “Don’t stop.” Potter lightly strokes his fingers back up before splaying his palms against Draco’s pectorals and pausing.

“May I kiss you here?” Potter asks, his fingers lightly grazing his quickly pebbling nipples. He nods and soon is met with Potter’s head bent over his chest, his hot mouth first kissing his nipple before bringing his nipple into his mouth, gently suckling it. Draco throws his head back, a cry ripping high from his throat, a burst of sensation exploding across his body, his left hand finding refuge in Potter’s wild hair. He buries his face into the mass of hair, his mouth opening against the long strands in a groan, brows drawing together in his raw pleasure. Before Potter can move his mouth to Draco’s other nipple, Draco yanks his head back, capturing Potter’s mouth in a searing kiss before quickly pulling back.

“I want you to take your clothes off and get on the bed with me. I want you to get on top of me,” he suggests, voice thick. “Do you like the sound of that?”

“I love the sound of that,” Potter says. His pupils are large and dark as he reaches down to tug at the bottom of his shirt, yanking it over his head and tossing the stained shirt to the floor. Draco slowly walks backwards until the back of his thighs hit the edge of the bed, sitting on the edge.

“Go slow,” Draco says.

Draco can tell even in the dim light of their bedroom Potter is flushing, but his expression is still confident as ever, his fingers gently caressing his stomach before landing on the buttons of his jeans, popping one button open at a time in a slow, torturous pace. He pushes his pants and jeans down his legs, kicking them off each foot. Potter’s then standing before him in all his glory. Draco’s chest  rises and falls rapidly, his heart pounding painfully at the sight. He’s never seen anyone as gorgeous as Potter. With his skin, kissed gold, his wild, shaggy jet black hair pulled back into a knot at the base of his neck, his stubble gracing his strong jaw, taut, brawny body and bright, almond-shaped green eyes— he’s something from a dream.

“Please,” Draco whimpers, his voice strangled. Potter moves carefully towards him and only stops when the front of his thighs touch Draco’s knees. “Kiss me.” He reaches out for Potter’s hands, their fingers locking and Draco inches up on the bed, spreading his legs as he gently coaxes Potter on top of him. He hooks a leg around Potter’s calf and Potter shifts his weight so he rests against their soft bedding. When their lips meet, it’s soft and languid. Draco’s mouth opens under Potter’s, their tongues smoothly caressing one another as Draco shakes and shivers and moans into Potter’s mouth.

As they come up for air, Potter places small, chaste kisses across Draco’s jaw and neck. Draco closes his eyes briefly as he savours the intimacy of their position. “Tell me what you want.”

Draco takes a deep breath. “I want,” he pants. “I want you to—I want you to touch me— while you open me up with your tongue.” Potter releases a messy breath, his eyes darkening.

“How do you want it?” Potter runs a hand through Draco’s hair.

“I want…I want you slow and gentle.”

Potter kisses him once more before resting his forehead against his. “I’ve got you,” he says resolutely. “Can you turn over for me?”

“No,” Draco starts, not comfortable with the idea of facing away from Potter. “I want to see you.”

Potter's smile is affectionate. “Okay,” he whispers.

Potter snakes his way down Draco’s body, hooking his hands under Draco’s thighs and tugging him down towards the edge of the bed. Draco stretches out a hand to grab a pillow and tucks it under his bum. Potter kneels between his open legs, his hands gently kneading Draco’s thighs.

“You’re so perfect like this,” Potter intones. “Are you okay?”

“More than,” he responds, his breath coming out in short puffs as he opens his legs further. Potter hooks Draco’s knees over his shoulders, grasps his hips to pull him down, and leans in to slide his tongue from Draco’s perineum to his hole. Draco arches into the movement, a whimper of pleasure escaping him as Potter moves to grip the globes of his arse, carefully pulling them apart so he can lick, suck, and nibble at his hole.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Draco whimpers, his hands clenching at the sheet beneath him as he arches his back. “It feels so good, Potter, yes...”

Draco jerks forward with shrill cry of surprise as Potter’s tongue breaches him, relentlessly working his tongue into him, coaxing him open. Draco rocks back against his tongue, a chain of unintelligible words and moans ripping from him. Spurred on by his wild sounds, Potter continues to ravish him like a starving man.

Potter pulls away slightly. “Are you okay?”

Flushed and slightly drunk off the pleasure, Draco pushes up to his elbows to glare at Potter. “Potter, if you don’t get back down there—”

Potter chuckles. “You taste so delicious, Draco, I could feast on you forever. I’d never want for the taste of anything else.”

“Oh, _God_ ,” Draco moans, low and raw, flopping back onto the bed and throwing an arm across his eyes. He’s too far gone to respond to Potter’s filthy sweet comment. His other hand goes around his throbbing cock to circle the base as Potter presses his mouth once more to his puckered, shamelessly loosened, throbbing hole. “Potter…Potter…a finger, please?” he pants. Draco’s request is soon met with a lube-slick finger pressing into him alongside Potter’s tongue. He doesn’t even have half a mind to tease Potter about showing off with his nifty, wandlessly conjured lube. “ _Merlin, fuck!”_ he hisses as he’s stretched further, the burning sensation nearly sending him over the edge. He grips his cock once more, trying desperately to stave off his orgasm. “ _Potter_ …please…” Potter pulls back completely and Draco slowly pumps his cock. “Please, Potter…fuck,” Draco mewls, voice high. “I need you. I always need you,” he all but sobs. Potter crawls up his body, pausing to place a tender kiss on his hipbone where the splinching scar starts, and Draco grabs him for a messy kiss. “I want you inside me.”

“Merlin,” Potter moans. “That sounds amazing, Draco, _please_ …” Draco pulls him in for a filthy kiss, his fingers tight in Potter’s hair, their hard cocks sliding against each other. “ _Yes_ ,” Potter whimpers against his mouth.

 

Draco decides he wants to be on top so he can control the pace. As he straddles a wickedly grinning Potter, who continues to knead the top of Draco’s thighs, Draco leans forward, lubes up two fingers, and presses them inside himself to make sure he’s properly open. He reaches behind himself to take a hold of Potter’s lubed cock. He bites his lower lip, hard.

“Hey, look at me,” Potter says. Draco lifts his gaze from Potter’s chest to his eyes. “It’s okay,” Potter intones softly. “We can go as slow as you like or not at all, my love.” Draco’s heart swells with affection, and for the first time, he feels as if he sees _all_ of Potter — the man who dances to 90s girl band songs, cooks in ridiculous aprons, has a startling depth of tenderness and kindness, and wants Draco to be a part of his chosen family.

“I’m ready,” he says.

“Okay?” Potter asks. Draco nods and positions his slick entrance over Potter’s cock and slowly presses down, every inch causing his tight entrance to open to Potter, greedily pulling Potter into his body so they can become one. It’s too much and yet not enough as he hisses through it, mouth sliding open as he relishes the slight pain accompanied with the immense pleasure. Potter feels so good, filling him like this, filling and _healing_ his mind and heart, and now his body. He doesn’t stop pressing back until his bum is flush against Potter’s pelvis. He gives a deep, chest-rattling moan when he’s fully seated. He feels so strong.

Draco relaxes. They both breathe in and out precariously, not wanting to come too soon. Potter shudders and whimpers as Draco carefully lifts off Potter’s cock, his hands planting on Potter’s chest as he lifts his hips before rolling them to press back down onto Potter’s cock again, pleasure exploding through every nerve ending in his body. He _needs_ to move or he’ll surely die. He doesn’t notice the dollops of tears caught in his lashes until Potter’s thumbs are wiping them away. He starts to ride Potter at a faster pace, his body trembling as Potter’s hands now grip his narrow hips. “You feel so fucking— _oh God_ , _Draco_ ,” Potter praises, a whimper escaping him as Draco presses back onto him again. “I want to touch you here,” Potter rushes out.

“Yes, _please_ ,” Draco croons. Potter wraps calloused hands around his cock and strokes. “Potter, yes, Potter. Come on,” Draco begs, rolling and shifting his hips harder, faster. Potter begins to thrust upward and Draco’s tosses his head back with a low, guttural moan.

He feels _so good_ , and he cries out when Potter’s cock hits his prostate. Draco arches, shouting a wild “right there” as Potter’s thrusts become snaps, their mingled moans intoxicating. “Potter,” and “oh, God,” escapes from his mouth like a chant as his nails press into Potter’s chest. With Potter’s dark hair fanned out against the pillow, skin flushed and sweaty, he looks debauched and it’s obscenely sexy. Draco growls at the sight, “so gorgeous,” he barely gets out. When he tilts his hips to shift the angle once more and his hole quivers around Potter’s cock, it only takes a few more thrusts until Potter’s shouting out he’s about to come, a rough cry tearing from the core of him as his orgasm hits him hard. Potter’s hand still grips Draco cock and even through his orgasm he rubs a thumb over the sensitive glans. This, coupled with Potter’s thrusting though his orgasm, is all Draco needs to come, shooting far, landing on Potter’s chest, stomach, and shoulder. Panting and shivering, Potter wraps a hand around the back of Draco’s neck and yanks him down, his cock sliding out, swallowing Draco’s whimpers in a heated kiss.

 _How did he land such an amazing partner?_ Draco wonders wildly as Potter presses their foreheads together, both panting heavily in one another’s faces, eyes closed, heartbeats erratic. 

When Draco finally comes down from his orgasm, he bursts into tears, collapsing on top of Potter. Potter scrambles under him in a panic but Draco grips Potter’s shoulders. “What’s the matter? Shit, Draco, did I hurt you?” Draco draws in a stuttering breath.

“No,” he says gruffly but firmly once his sobs have quieted. “I just love you so, so much, Harry.” Harry – and _yes,_ forever _Harry, his_ Harry _—_ looks up at him, brilliant green eyes wide with shock before a large grin splits across his face. He beams up at Draco as if he’s set the moon and stars in the sky just for him. “I _love_ you,” he repeats, smiling through his tears.

“I love you too, Draco. You mean everything to me. _Everything_.” Draco tilts his chin down in askance and Harry leans in to kiss him tenderly, then gently peppers kisses all over his tear-stained face – on his eyelids, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips. They curl around each other, a tangle of legs and arms as they hold one another.

 

* * *

 

**_Epilogue_ **

 

The frost has yet to shake from the bare trees when Draco decides to cut his hair.

 

He chooses a pair of scissors instead of his wand. He makes his way to his and Harry’s ensuite, quickly picking up and folding the clothes Harry left on the floor in haste this morning before work. As he stands before the mirror, he tugs free the thin black velvet ribbon keeping his hair tied in a neat queue down his back. With a stroke of his hand, his hair loosens and fans out around him— a few strands catching on the platinum engagement ring Harry presented him with a few weeks ago — a white blond curtain filled with memories both good and bad. It was his ponytail the stranger had grabbed that night to pull him into the alley. His hair was weaponised and used as a tool to help brutalise his body. It wasn’t _his_ anymore, and one year since the assault, he’s come to embrace that that feeling is no longer acceptable.

Tears spring to his eyes as he gingerly cuts into the mass he takes a handful of. The _sssst_ sound of the metal snipping away at his soft hair makes his Adam’s apple bob painfully as he tries to bite back a sob. The strands, soft as silk, slide between his fingers to land at his feet. As he works through removing his hair by sectioning off handfuls of strands at a time and cutting them away, he feels something else slipping from him. The clenched ball of pain in the pit of his stomach he’s worked tirelessly at to chip away since the assault feels _smaller_. He feels _lighter_ , shedding this weight, and he doesn’t stop until his hair barely brushes his earlobes. The ends need a little bit of evening out, but the style draws attention to his high cheekbones, long pale neck, sharp collarbones and strong shoulders. He smiles at his reflection.

He feels… _amazing_.  

“Hey.”

He doesn’t turn around when Harry enters the ensuite, but he can feel the other man behind him. He doesn’t meet his eyes in the mirror until Harry places a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve cut your hair.”

“Wonderful observational skills as always, Auror Potter,” he quips thickly, his overly bright eyes meeting Potter’s almond-shaped green ones in the mirror. “Just a bit of extra weight off my shoulders,” he says resolutely, running a hand through his shortened locks.

“You look handsome.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. After a beat, “Would you terribly mind evening out the ends for me?” His voice is hopeful.

Harry stares at him for a while in the mirror, his cheeks dimpling in a brilliant grin. “It would be my pleasure,” he says, leaning forward to sweetly kiss Draco’s cheek. “Let’s go to the kitchen, I’ll make us a cuppa while we’re at it.”

Harry leads him down to the kitchen, gesturing for him to take a seat on one of their tall wooden stools before putting on the tea kettle. He does, his eyes looking up at him expectantly. He watches the concentrated, thoughtful look on Harry’s face with interest, taking in the thin line between his thick eyebrows, the small tilt of a frown gracing his mouth and his soft, even breathing. The overwhelming feeling bursting from the centre of his chest is silly, he knows, but he trusts Harry with his life. He trusts him enough that if Harry were to tell him whispers from trees were the rite of life, he’d believe it. Harry’s strong hand runs through his short mane and Draco closes his eyes against the sensual touch, his lips slightly parting in a show of pleasure. When he opens his eyes, Harry is staring down at him, face sincere. He picks up the scissors beside him on the table and begins to cut the uneven strands of Draco’s hair.   

With every gentle brush through his hair, every flick of a strand from his forehead, every careful _snip_ , Draco falls a little bit more in love with the man in front of him. With all his rough edges, Harry’s been there to smooth and shape them over, even when he didn’t know where the rough edges were coming from. Draco’s thumb fondly spins the engagement ring on his finger.

He _loves_ Harry. Loves him so much he can hardly breathe as he looks up at the man, his gaze focused to the left of Draco’s cheek, carefully holding a section of hair between his index and middle fingers as he continues to carefully cut millimetres off the edges of his strands. Draco waits patiently, body thrumming, until Harry pulls back, surveying his handiwork.

“All done,” he says triumphantly— stupid Gryffindor smile crossing his face. Draco’s hand reaches out to touch Harry’s cheek, his grey eyes meeting green in a silent ask to be touched. Harry perceptibly leans in and Draco curls his hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down so their lips touch. Harry eagerly meets him in a messy kiss and it’s perfect.

Draco knows he’ll never be the person he was before the rape, but that’s not his goal. Through his setbacks, his doubts and his crippling fears, he’ll continue to grow, to become strong and deft at navigating his world with an improved sense of self-worth and confidence. And here with Harry’s tender love to help guide him, he’s more than sure of it. He’ll continue to learn what it means to love, to be strong, and to be _at peace_.

Draco is not a new man, nor is he a man riding the waves of some epiphany.

 

He is simply a free man.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *art commissioned by wizardnem
> 
>  
> 
> Hi! Thank you for sticking with this story. 
> 
> I’d like to take this moment to briefly reiterate some of the elements of consent I explored.
> 
> Draco had any semblance of basic consent and safety ripped from him through stranger rape. In response, he struggled with coming to terms with the realities of his assault, and how it impacted his already precarious relationship with Harry. Ultimately, through his established relationship, we explored how couples can handle (or not handle) rape in both verbal and non-verbal ways. 
> 
> Trust was a really big theme in this story. The prompt asked to see a *reestablishing* of trust, but I veered off a bit and instead showed trust *developing* between Draco and Harry. I tried to show that trust and personal growth was a natural progression in their relationship without having to write, “this scene here shows them doing XYZ that healed both of their trust/insecurity issues” – but instead subtly show how they both naturally came together in the face of trauma, from Harry's involvement in Draco's recovery to simply asking for permission before touching.
> 
> I also wanted to show that mistakes can happen in a relationship when you disclose assault to your partner. I tried to reinforce this by mentioning that despite Harry’s Auror training in sex crimes and his readings into trauma, he made a mistake by pushing Draco’s rape case without permission. And we see here how this mistake became a potential learning experience between them. I also tried to show how consent/trust worked within the frame of Pansy and Draco’s friendship. Despite Draco’s rudeness and the arguments concerning disclosing the rape, Pansy never goes behind Draco’s back to share his secret. I found Draco disclosing to Pansy first important, because this kind of interaction happens – people may tell a close friend or family member so they can unburden their trauma. I wanted to depict that reality, as well.
> 
> I’ll be honest here and let you all know that I haven’t been a part of fandom for a very, very long time. I dipped my toes back into the fandom pool just last year. I have not immersed myself in current debates concerning non/con in fanfiction, but I staunchly believe that fanfiction is a way for us to explore and work through certain real life issues without judgement or fear. I hope you agree. I’m not the most articulate person in the world, but I do hope you understand where I’m coming from.  
> Below I have some links for those interested in finding out more information on assistance/help/hotlines on sexual assault both in the UK, US, and throughout Europe. If you have any info, **especially international** , do please share. Again, many thanks to the mods for this fest. And thank you to my beta for their immense wisdom and insight.  
> [Thank you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrT_0J6m6y8)
> 
>  **Sources:**  
>  https://rapecrisis.org.uk/statistics.php  
> https://www.ons.gov.uk/peoplepopulationandcommunity/crimeandjustice/compendium/focusonviolentcrimeandsexualoffences/yearendingmarch2016/overviewofviolentcrimeandsexualoffences
> 
>  **Links for More Information/Help** :  
> UK Services  
> http://thesurvivorstrust.org/find-support/  
> https://rapecrisis.org.uk/  
> https://www.nhs.uk/Livewell/Sexualhealth/Pages/Sexualassault.aspx  
> https://www.survivorsuk.org/  
> Europe: https://www.rcne.com/
> 
> USA Services  
> http://endrapeoncampus.org/  
> https://www.rainn.org/  
> http://www.safebae.org/


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